


An Affair of Consequence and Amity

by thumbipeach



Category: Purple Hyacinth (Webcomic)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Murder Mystery, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, BAMF!Lauren, Basically Agatha Christie’s Evil Under The Sun but with Lauki, Childhood Trauma, Crime Drama, Domesticity, F/M, Flower Symbolism, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, HIGHKEY POWER COUPLE, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, Murder, Murder Mystery, PTSD mentions, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Power Couple, SIMP!Kieran, Seaside escape, Spies & Secret Agents, Trauma, Vacation, Vacation Gone wrong lmao, badassery, because it’s accurate, daisies, did I mention this was self indulgent??, even though that’s what PH is anyway, hell yeah, i ain’t even sorry about it, i love suffering, kiki and Lauren being soft, not necessarily in that order, secret indentities, there is angst I’m sorry, very self indulgent ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 105,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbipeach/pseuds/thumbipeach
Summary: It's the summer of XX37，and the Sinclair-Whites are on holiday at the illustrious seaside escape of La Belle Chose. They'd hoped to escape the rush and vigor of police work, of the swirls of their past and the little secrets they keep swept up in their closets. But when a murder occurs, and the Purple Hyacinth is indicated after 10 long years, La Lune must come together once again and solve the puzzle of a tragedy that once was their life.This is the story of Lauren and Kieran, two partners in work, in life, in death, and—most importantly—in crime.—(Or: me just wanting Lauki married life with them being badass and a good team and Kiki finding happiness because I'm s o f t).
Relationships: Kym Ladell/William Hawkes (background), Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White
Comments: 239
Kudos: 310
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	1. They Say

They say many things about the legendary duo once known as Lune.

They say that they were two lovers, that one was a police officer and one was an assassin who coerced his love into the Phantom Scythe so he may bring it down to ruin. 

_One was the most dangerous criminal in the city. The other was an agent of the law who could tell when they lied. They were the only two people who could have stood to work together._

They say that they hated each other, that they were partners in arms but loathed all they stood for on the sides.

_First, they were definitive enemies. Then, under the light of a moon, tentative partners. Then, tentative friends. Then absolute enemies once again. After that, apologetic partners in crime, then confidantes, and then--a bond that transcended friends. They knew each other like a mouse knows its cage, like a river its bed._

_Then, when she slung her arm around his shoulder at the circus and they smiled into the lens of a camera, they knew that what they had was more than anything they’d been able to think before. They were two halves of a whole; two parts to a single story._

_When they kissed for the first time, him bloody and her bruised, they knew they were too far gone to care._

They say that when the church lit up with the light of gunfire on the night of February 17th, the leader of the Phantom Scythe inside, that Lune was standing there above it all, like two black angels on the precipice of a delicious hell.

_She raced up the steps to the cathedral, a desperate wraith, with her coattails flying and hair whipping about her blood-spattered face. One shot, two shots, three shots, and yet all the ringing of her gun couldn’t drown out the tinny whine in her ears._

_She ran and ran and ran, all while making silent prayers._

_Please let him be alive. Please don’t let me be too late. Please, please._

_She came across the myriad bodies of the Apostles, the 8th and 10th, their innards splattered out on the church walls. Not a hyacinth to be seen. Perhaps, she reasoned, he just wasn’t sorry for their deaths. She wasn’t, that was sure._

_On and on and on until she reached the chapel, and there she registered the exhausted magazine in her pistol, and the equally as exhausted aches in her heart and legs. There he was. Not the one she wanted, albeit the one she’d been pining for, then grieving for, then searching for, then hating. Him. Him._

_He sat in the pews, white hair framing a downcast face of pious levity, but when he raised his head it was anything but innocent._

_“Ren. I hope that’s not for me.”_

_She was pointing a gun at him that would never reach, holding out a hand that would never touch him. She wanted him to die. She never wanted to let him go. She was the biggest hypocrite of them all._

_“Dylan. Please. Don’t make me do this.”_

_He sighed, and it was weary and torn. She should have known better. “Ah, Ren. You don’t have to do it! Why has it become so hard for us to understand each other?” He rose slowly, dusting imaginary crumbs off his black garb. She gripped her gun tighter, held her breath harder. It hurt, it hurt._

_“You know as well as I do that this had to be done. What good is a monarchy with no anarchy, Ren? What good is this life if we cannot stand beside each other as equals?” His eyes were marred with tension, though his face remained impassive. Lauren grit her teeth._

_“And Kieran?”_

_That stopped him short. He looked at her curiously, almost as if he didn’t understand._

_“What they did to Kieran and all those other children. You included. Was—did that have to be done too??”_

_He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then:_

_“Of course. For the good of Ardhalis.”_

_She wanted to scream. I love you. I hate you. What have you become? She wanted many things: to shoot him, to shout, to run into his arms and beg him to see. But she cannot. She only holds the pistol._

_“Can you really do it, Ren? Lauren. Lauren, tell me. You can’t do that to an old friend.” He holds out his arms, mocking, disdainful. She aims to shoot, knowing full well there is nothing there._

_And then she doesn’t have to. For an angel comes from the light of the window, with shards of glass and blood and the acrid scent of smoke. A sword she knows too well plunges into her oldest, dearest friend (now oldest, dearest enemy)’s chest. He crumples with nary a noise. Eyes that at times before this held flirtation, seriousness, coldness, sparks and love, now hold nothing and everything at all. Her heart is at once broken and rebuilt._

_The Purple Hyacinth has claimed another. It’s last._

_Lune is successful._

_The Leader is dead._

_He looks up at her and brings a bloodied hand up to her cheek, smearing blood across the flesh. Distantly she can hear the sound of a blade clattering to the floor, but she does not register it over the sound of waves of relief crashing into her. One step forward, then two, and a desperate noise like a starved animal escapes her. Her gun joins his sword. She leaps into his arms, and he catches her with torn sleeves and a weary helplessness._

_“Hello, amour. Did you miss me?”_

They say they laughed in the light of the glass when the Leader was exterminated. 

_They sat together in front of the Leader's body. She was holding onto his blood soaked arm and sobbing, and he was twirling a hyacinth in his fingers, his eyes stormy with an unnamed emotion. The rain splatters against the cathedral walls, the puddles of water form around them like a leeching ocean. Moonlight filters through the clear paintings on the walls, casting multi-colored shadows across the wooden floor, across the pews, across the body of a boy once alive, now dead._

_When the sobs cease, they stay in silence, a silence not comfortable enough to call enjoyable, but one among two people who were pit against the world._

_“He—”_

_“Hm?”_

_“He never lied.”_

_“About?”_

_“About himself.”_

_“Ah.”_

_“I don’t know—”_

_“You don’t have to know.”_

_“I killed him—”_

_“No.” He turns to her, and his eyes hold more emotion than she’s ever seen. “I did.”_

_“I—“_

_“Killed him only in your heart.”_

_She bunches herself into a ball and cries against his shoulder. She allows herself a weakness she could not have ever in the past ten years._

_He tightens the hold he has on her knee. Perhaps he allows himself a weakness too, for he cocks his head and nestles it where hers is. He tastes salt and bitterness, and knows the familiar pang of tears and blood._

_They laugh only in the recesses of a life they didn’t know they wanted._

They say that they were prominent leaders, businessmen or politicians. That they took down the Leader out of their own delusions of grandeur. 

_"What are you planning to do, after this?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"You heard me, subordinate. What do you want to do? You're free, now."_

_"Am I?" And his face held no mirth._

_"Well, what did you plan after we had killed him?" She raised her head from his shoulder, where she was clinging to him like he was her anchor in the torrent. Tears streaked her face and her golden eyes were haunted, but she was still like the sun to him, he who was the night's dark._

_"I planned to die."_

_She hit his arm. "Kieran! Don't be morbid. Seriously."_

_He looked down at her. "Did I lie?"_

_She gave him a stern look, but he chose to ignore it. "I'll go to jail and pay for what I've done, and I'll rot there like a flower until I die. That was the plan anyway."_

_She frowned but said nothing more. He looked again upon the body in front of them. White hair, eyes once grey as slate, now closed in death. For a while again, the only sounds were of the dripping ceiling and her occasional sniffs._

_"I'd want to be an art teacher."_

_Her head shot up and he gave her a small smile. Not cutting and sharp and impish like the one she knows and has come to love but genuine and soft. He's telling the truth._

_"Or something or other to do with art. I never wanted to be around kids...for obvious reasons. But I think it would be nice. Nice to teach the young something."_

_She can't stop the smile that spreads across her face. He looks at her and then chuckles. "Don't tell anyone, I have a reputation to keep up after all."_

_She laughs, a real, throaty laugh, and he does too. She laughs like she has never laughed before. And they sit there for longer, basking in each other's company in the church where all their security came to an end._

They say they disappeared into the shadows, never to be seen again.

_“Maybe I’d even settle down somewhere. On a farm. Raise some goats and pigs.”_

_She snorts. “Really, subordinate? Wouldn’t have thought you for the settling type. Going to have a wife and some little brats as well?”_

_“Ah, well. Perhaps.”_

_“Ah, then,” and was it him, or did she look sullen, “got a girl in mind, White?”_

_He turns to look at her, and the sky does not hold a candle to the untraceable_ something _in his sea blue eyes. “Yes,” he says, eyes still locked with hers, “I do. But, I don’t know if she’d have me, then.”_

_It takes her an embarrassingly long time, but she realizes that he’s not joking. He turns back to the pews, illuminated in the dark by moonlight and water shine._

_“After all, I am only her mere subordinate.”_

_She only holds his arm tighter and buries her head into his bicep. He curls his head on hers. She presses a feather-light kiss to his arm and looks up at him under her lashes._

_“Hopefully your superior can make a concession.”_

_He turns back and kisses her forehead with a reverence that almost makes her weep again._

_“Let’s hope she will.”_

They say that when the remnants of the Scythe were tried, the Viper, the remaining Apostles that they hadn’t killed, and, of course, the loathsome Purple Hyacinth, Lune was there. Waiting, watching triumphantly in the rafters.

_When Kieran is tried, Lauren rushes from her uncle’s estate into the courtroom, like a fire racing to the end of a lit match. When she sees him standing tall and his black hair cascading down his shoulders, she wants to scream. But as the top detective of the precinct, and the front runner for chief of police, she must be strong and testify for him. Claiming that his acts of care and generosity as a police officer indicate his exterior as a hardened criminal was just means to an end._

_Lune is indeed there that day, but one is a witness and the other the accused. They can do nothing for each other but speak eloquently and hope._

_She wants to say that he is a good man. She wants to tell them about the time he promised her he’d find whoever murdered Harvey Wood, she wants to talk about the time they made up for their biggest fight and he looked at her with such sorrow that she felt she could burst. About all the times he snatched her hand and held it up to his lips, about the times he listened,_ truly _listened to her. About how, from day one, he believed her when she claimed to know things people could not. About how she could hear his lies like thorns in her eyes, and every time he lied he lied about not being remorseful. That he was and still is a gem among men. But she does not say that._

_Instead, she settles for the offer the King gives them._

They say that the Royals know who they really are. That they cover up for them because they are afraid of them becoming the next Phantoms to haunt Ardhalis. That they are weak to Lune’s position and coercion.

_Out of consideration for Kieran’s situation, King Philip gives them a choice: Either publicly state that both of them are Lune and that Kieran is the Purple Hyacinth, and they will be seperated: Kieran will get life and she will be relegated to community work. She will be allowed to return to work afterwards, and continue on with her life as if they’d never known each other._

_(Hell)._

_Or, cover the whole thing up. Kieran will serve 5, plus his share of community work. She will become the next chief of police, and they will not speak of the people who killed Ardhalis’s most dangerous ever again._

_(A different option)._

_They mull over it for a couple days, those days marred with arguments, mainly started by Kieran, over how much he does or doesn’t deserve._

_“Why won’t you admit that you deserve to be free? To have a life?”_

_“Because I don’t!_ **_And I don’t want a life.”_ **

_“Bullshit, Kieran! Don’t lie to me. You know you’re sorry—”_

_“Sorry doesn’t make me redeemable!”_

_“Kieran. You deserve more than the hand you’ve been given.”_

_Amongst that is moments of clarity, where they dare to imagine that they could be together. That Kieran could have a life and Lauren could be beside him._

_“Lauren, what’s your favorite flower?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you.”_

_“Ah...I like daisies.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Well, yes. They’ve always been simple, and pretty.”_

_“I see.”_

_Daisies appear on the side table every night from then on._

_“Kieran, what is yours?”_

_“Mine?”_

_“Yes, subordinate. Are you deaf? Your favorite flower. It can’t be hyacinths, not that much anyway.”_

_“I….don’t know if I’ve ever considered it.”_

_“Hm… I’ll have to keep trying, then.”_

_He likes hydrangeas._

_They share little kisses and small touches, cups of coffee and long, sleepless nights. Then, they make their decision, and the King signs the documents. Five years it is._

They say that sometimes, if you listen closely, you can still hear Lune walk at night, across the rooftops and clacking on shingles.

_It is first her that wakes when they share the same bed. She starts upwards with visions of daisies and fire and smoke and blood, blood, blood. She clutches at the sheets and near howls, if not for consideration for the man beside her. But he is too attuned to her, and he too jolts awake. He takes her in his arms, his white undershirt smelling of poppies and charcoal and musk, and calms her down the best he can. She does not voice how grateful she is; she can only drown in the guilt that has trapped her for 15 years, that is still trapping her even with the death of all it has held._

_Then he wakes. His is quiet, harried breathing and wild, dogged eyes, but all the same she tries for him. She clings to his back (she assures him that it’s for comfort and not so he can’t have access to her neck) and runs her fingers through his loose hair, braiding it softly and whispering grounding words in his ear, so he may remain in their bedroom and not back in a car crammed to the brim with children, with the smell of blood and sweat, with the visions of red pools and little bunches of purple flowers._

_The only sounds Lune makes are the sounds of their grief. But also of their healing, and their love. It is the only way to keep afloat._

They say they eloped, that they had a bastard child together and that’s why they did it. That she was a prostitute and he a rich sod who was just tired of it all.

_They married on February 18th, XX32, in a registry office._

_Will and her uncle were witnesses, and Kym braided daisies into her hair. They never expressed whether they were happy with her decision or not, but they looked upon the couple with grace and peace nonetheless. After all, Lauren wasn’t allowed to say anything at their wedding just 3 years prior. So they indulged her. Her uncle cried. Kym may have shed a tear, and Will never admitted to swiping under his eyes. And when they got home, when clothes were off and blinds drawn, she could have sworn that she felt warm tears slip down Kieran’s face._

_Maybe hers too. But she’d never tell._

They say that they are twined together like strings of red fate. That they were meant to be the saviors of the city long before they were born.

_They talk about it when they buy back the old Sinclair estate. Whether life would have been different had they not met that night. As they unload boxes and discard the lavender blooms that the housekeepers send them as gifts, they come to the mutual agreement that, even if they had not met that night, even if they had not killed the Leader together, they would have still found a way._

_Then, once the last of the hyacinths are absent from the house, and the gramophone is set up, they put on a record of waltz music, and dance like they hadn’t been able to at the police ball._

They say many things about Ardhalis’s most famous vigilante duo. But the most important thing they say is that wherever they must be now, whomever and whatever they were, they are happy with what they’ve accomplished.

_They are._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So,,, some base layout:
> 
> \- I’m not actually sure I buy into the theory (or general consensus) that Dylan is the Leader. Seems a bit too hamfisted and the timeline just doesn’t add up. But, for the sake of this piece (Where it features very little, only in trauma flashbacks), I decided to keep it simple and play into “Dylan is Leader” theory.
> 
> \- I’m also not entirely sure that PH is going to end happily for Lauki. I just don’t see a viable scenario in which Lauren and Kieran can live the happily ever after we all want for them, even after they eventually make up. It just doesn’t seem plausible to me, and seeing how much soph and eph love to torture us I’m not sure we’re getting it either. Which is why I’m here to shell out self indulgent fanfiction where Lauren and Kieran have bullshitted their way out of court ordered punishment and are soft married couple(tm) and are just living their best lives. You can thank me later.
> 
> \- I don’t know how many chapters this will be. I have this one completed and most of the draft done for Chapter 2, but life and stuff happens so I don’t know anything about an upload schedule/timeline (that’s assuming anyone’s gonna read this lol)
> 
> -Kudos are always appreciated and comments will be read and printed and posted on my wall <3
> 
> Have fun!  
> -thumbipeach


	2. The Nightingale Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have a wonderful night, Mr. Fairson. We’ll see you later.”

The Nightingale Train was the nickname given to the express train connecting the Ardhalis main to the coast to the south. It ran across the complete way of the sea and ended at the port city, _Des Angoisses,_ where tourism was popular among the nobles and high society. It ran at all times of the day, but was famous for the overnight options. The train itself was marketed to make little to no noise, the only sounds being the soft humming of the wheels against the metal tracks; hence the name: Nightingale.   
  


The Fairsons had booked the trip last minute, when Mr. Fairson had discovered that his boss was magnanimously giving him two weeks off (after a disastrous muck up in paperwork for which he was indicated but not as of yet found responsible). Mrs. Fairson had always had an affinity for the sea (or so she claimed, despite never actually having seen it), and Mr. Fairson, not wanting another argument where they discuss their differing taste in country to arise, conceded to his wife’s demands and made plans to vacation at _La Belle Chose,_ Ardhalis’s most famed retreat, nestled right in the bosom of the Fae’s Cove, a popular tourist area at the very southern tip of the country. 

At the current moment, it was the cusp of twilight, and as the train chugged onwards, Mr. Fairson elected to gaze out the window at the passing dusk colors and the ramshackle buildings dotting the landscape like herds of colorful sheep as the Nightingale left the small towns just out of the Ardhalis main, instead of listening to his wife prattle on about his missed chances. 

“Listen to me, Otis. You could have easily just have _told_ them about the extra money we used on the house instead of covering it up behind the building constructions,” his wife urged, as she brushed bits of lemon square off of her bright crimson evening gown. Mr. Fairson thought it was a rather appalling color for _anyone_ to wear, but on his wife it worked in special detriment to his eyesight.

“I’m sure _darling_ Mr. Harris wouldn’t have minded too terribly if you had just—Otis, are you even listening to me?”

He turned his head back to his wife and muttered a noncommittal “Yes, dear.” at her bedecked form in the chair across from him. He could never understand why the society women his wife was tentatively friends with bothered to wear those bulky corsets in an attempt to flatten their figure, or as to why they insisted on pumping that same urge into his wife. Her corset did not flatter her, and he could clearly see the effort the stays were working to strain the fabric of the dress tighter around her form. It did not fit, he thought, as it would have a younger woman. 

“It is one’s course to be meticulous. Of course, we can’t all be like the APD, or even _Lune_ for that matter, but you could at least spare a bit of that intelligence that I married you for and _use_ it-”

“Oh, would you give it a rest, Petunia?” He sighed irritably. “It’s not like I haven’t got a million things on my mind already, and now going to this dreadful seaside _port_ with nothing but _fish_ and _stink—”_

“Otis! Don’t be ridiculous, it’ll be fun! Think, the sounds of the ocean beating against the shore and the soft breeze! Oh, stop being such a buzzkill!”

“‘ _Soft air and breeze’_ oh _listen_ to yourself! It won’t be half as magical as you make it out to be. You’ve barely ever left the Ardhalis proper, you know nothing about the horrors of the world and I think frankly, that you’ve gotten too fond of the idea of these wild, exotic places—“

“Otis, you are _horrid!_ Why can’t you just—“

“We are not doing this here,” he grumbled underneath his breath. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a gold-fringed lighter and a rosy case of cigars, he slid out of his seat.

  
“I need a smoke,” he explained gruffly, before exiting the dining carriage altogether, not giving his wife time to react.

Making his way to the very end of the train, where he knew a balcony was built just for individuals with cigars and pipes, Mr. Fairson continued to mutter grievances under his breath. He should have put his foot down and gone to the villa he and his family owned on the Upper North side of Ardhalis, like he’d wanted. Instead, to prevent his wife from spending any more money out of anger, he’d laid down like a little doormat and done what she wanted. Silly of him, for now he was in a much more unsavory situation. If only he’d had a wife who was more willing to go along with what he was saying.

Entering the last carriage and preoccupied with his lighter and cigar, he suddenly felt a thud and a clatter as he ran smack dab into another man just exiting the cabin to the left. Cigars fell in neat lines out of his steel case and scattered on the embroidered carpet. 

“Ah, damn!” He cursed, bending down to pick up the myriad cigars. The man, apologizing with a soft, hushed breath, began to help him.

“Many apologies, sir. I did not see you.” The man intoned, and returned several of the cigars to his case. 

Mr. Fairson dithered. “Oh, no problem, sir. I should have been watching.”

The man held one of the cigars up to the soft light emitted from a lightbulb overhead, inspecting the label. “ _Chameau 57,_ eh? These are expensive. And rare too, I hear.” He smiled, handing the end of the cigar back. 

Mr. Fairson laughed, taking it. “Ah, yes! Got them for five a piece. Not a bargain, but I can afford it, and it’s the only good stuff on the market.” 

The man smiled softly. “Were you going to the balcony, sir?” he asked. 

Mr. Fairson took the time to study him. He was tall, and fairly young. Younger than him, anyways--perhaps early to mid thirties. His long raven hair was tied neatly into a braid with a white ribbon that rested delicately on the back of his neck. He wore a smart night dress of grey cotton and black fabric pants, and his stance, angular and poised, belied a silent strength. His sharp eyes of a deep blue held a note of something untraceable in them, like the unruly beating of the waves Mr. Fairson despised so much.

He was unsure if he liked the man instinctively or not—in fact, he found he couldn’t say anything definitive about him upon consideration. But something about the way he regarded him—such a blankness as to be unnatural—made Mr. Fairson feel a little intimidated. 

“Why yes, I was. Were you?”

“Indeed. May I accompany you? Or would that be too much of an intrusion after spilling all of your prized cigars?” He smiled a little half smile, neutral and elegant. 

“No, my good man!” Mr. Fairson forewent the uneasy feeling in his gut and beckoned towards the door leading out to the balcony. “I’d be delighted to have some company...that isn’t my wife,” he muttered underneath his breath.

The man laughed a little and followed behind him out of the last sleeper car. The steady hum of the Nightingale offset the cool air of the night, and they brushed up against the golden-gilded rails as they watched the pine trees whisk behind them with thrushes of air. Mr. Fairson lit his cigar, took a couple of puffs, savored the bitter tang of the tobacco in his lungs, and then, noticing his companion bereft of a smoke, offered the box to him.

“Oh, no thank you. I actually don’t smoke.” The man said, and ran a hand through the bangs that had fallen out of his braid. Mr. Fairson thought that he looked almost like a devil, attractive and beckoning, his face sharp and features aquiline in the moonlight.

_He must have several women competing for him back where he came from,_ he thought dully. He took another puff, the clouds of tobacco billowing behind them as the train moved onward.

“Oh? Well if that’s so, then why are you out here? Running from something?”

The man laughed. “No! Nothing like that, I can assure you. I like to be alone sometimes and think. My wife isn’t too fond of trains on its own, and she’s sleeping so soundly, I didn’t have the heart to wake her with my restlessness.”

“Oh! I see. Yes, I understand. My wife is the same.” Mr. Fairson blew out a billow of smoke and watched it flow out into the night air. “She can’t sleep much, **the poor thing.** Keeps me up at night. **I love her,** but sometimes it’s difficult, you know?” 

The man merely hummed in assent. Mr. Fairson took this as an invitation to continue speaking.

“My wife doesn’t work, so of course **she wouldn’t understand the difficulties of late nights. But of course I work night and day so I need my sleep.** Somehow she still manages to toss and turn at night. God!” He barked out a laugh. The man merely smiled and didn’t say anything. Mr. Fairson fell into that sudden realization that he’d been complaining to a man who he didn’t even know, and talking about nothing but himself.

Mr. Fairson turned to him. “Are you and your wife on a vacation?”

The man said that they were. When questioned further, Mr. Fairson was surprised to learn that their destinations aligned.

“You’re staying at _La Belle Chose_ as well? My, what a coincidence!”

The man made a noise of agreement. “Indeed...a striking coincidence, that.”

His hair whipped and framed his face like leaves, and Mr. Fairson was once again hit with a feeling of intimidation. He looked guarded, and there was something almost feral, now, in his gaze. His eyes were like sapphires, reflecting the night’s lush luminosity.

“My wife dragged me into it. I didn’t want to go.” Mr. Fairson admitted, to try and ease the tension that had increased in the air. “She convinced me **because my business was doing so well, just to take a break, and come down here,** but I don’t know, I just don’t like the sea at all.”

The man looked out towards the receding mountains.“Perhaps you should have put your foot down, then.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself! But one can’t sway my wife. Once she’s got her mind set, especially on something like this, there’s no turning back.” Mr. Fairson turned to him. “By the way, I never introduced myself, seeing as we’ve been talking for such a while now. I’m Mr. Otis Fairson, a bank teller from Ardhalis.” He extended a hand. 

The man considered him for a moment, then took the proffered palm. 

“Kieran. Kieran Sinclair-White. I’m an art professor in the Ardhalis main.”

_Sinclair-White._ Mr. Fairson mulled over it, trying to think back to where he’d heard either of the names before to make it sound so familiar. “Ah, are you—“

Suddenly, he heard the sound of the sleeper car door opening and felt the warm brush of air from within. He turned to see who had exited and was immediately struck dumb.

She was dressed in a long white sleeping gown, those typically worn by the Ardhalis old nobility, and her red hair was swept up into a low bun, strands falling out gracefully and curving onto her delicate neck. She was wrapped in a blanket of soft crimson cashmere, like blood dripping artfully down her shoulders. _Now_ this _was how red should be worn_ , he thought. She was beautiful. 

But her eyes. They were like rounded gemstones, sparkling and sharp. Knowing. Poised. He felt they could see and hear all his darkest, deepest desires and secrets. If he was only intimidated by the man, then he was frightened by this woman. 

“Kieran? You came out here? Why?” She asked. Her voice was calm and mellow, yet struck with a deep chord of assurance. 

Kieran smiled at her, and Mr. Fairson saw that for the first time that night, his small half-tilt of the lips was filled with genuinity. His cold eyes softened and his lips parted. 

“Hello, _amour._ Did I wake you?” And his voice was gentle, smooth.

She smiled. “Yes, when I heard things dropping,” she turned her eyes to Mr. Fairson, “and voices.” She turned back to Kieran. “You’re not subtle at all, dear.”

He laughed and held out a hand for her to take. She accepted it and laced her fingers with his, standing by his side. Kieran turned back to Mr. Fairson. “Mr. Fairson, this is my wife, Lauren.”

Lauren held out a hand to him, and he took it, kissing the back with reverence. “ _Enchanté, madame._ If you do not deem it impertinent, I have to say that your husband is a very lucky man. Why, I have never seen such pretty and pensive eyes before.”

Immediately those eyes became slightly mirthful. She smiled tightly. “Thank you, good sir. You’re right, my husband _is_ very lucky.” She turned to Kieran and rolled her eyes. He responded with a devilish smirk and then smoothed his face out. 

“That I am.”

Mr. Fairson paused, studying the woman before him. Something about her was _definitely..._ if only he could remember...

He let out a gasp of triumph. “Oh! Now I know why your faces seem familiar. You’re Lauren Sinclair-White! Chief of Police in Ardhalis! My, **it’s an honor Ma’am. I’ve supported everything you’ve done from day one, I—”**

The woman held up a hand, her lips still held taut in a patient line. “Please...Mr. Fairson, was it? I’m glad my face is recognizable.” She chuckled, but it held no real amusement. “Bully for the people who attempt to trifle with me, correct?” She stopped. “But I don’t want to advertise it. Please do not make such a deal of it.” She held tighter to Kieran’s arm. “I’m trying to have a quiet vacation with my husband without...any excitement.”

Kieran nodded. “Yes. Low profile is best. I hope you understand.”

Mr. Fairson apologized. “Of course, of course! I’ll stay quiet about it.” He held a playful finger up to his lips, but it did not seem to land and the couple did not acknowledge it.

Suddenly the train gave a lurch, and all three of them were caught momentarily off balance. Kieran and Lauren caught the rail, but Mr. Fairson stumbled and nearly fell flat onto the steel deck. He was stopped by a quick, deft hand on his collar and a supporting grasp on his wrist. He looked into Lauren’s captivating eyes as she smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes. 

“You must be careful, Mr. Fairson! Wouldn’t want you falling off the train, now.”

He laughed and straightened himself, brushing off his trousers self-consciously.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair-White, **I’m so sorry about my clumsiness.** ” To be helped by a woman--ah, but she was the chief of police, it made sense.

She laughed heartily, if not a little strained, and swept a wisp of auburn behind her ear. “No issue, Mr. Fairson! We all have blips, sometimes.”

He chuckled nervously. The couple threw each other a sideways glance.

Lauren and Kieran stood close together, his bicep brushing her arm, her fingers teasing the hem of his sleeve. They looked wholly comfortable with themselves, sure and steady, like two rocks in the midst of a rapid. Mr. Fairson found himself envying their easy manner and obvious affection. It was silent and unpronounced, but there nonetheless, an unspoken anchor between them. _Lucky bastard._

  
Reading the room (or rather, the atmosphere), Mr. Fairson hurriedly made an excuse. “ **Well, I really must be getting back—my cigar needs a refill—“**

“Of course, by all means Mr. Fairson.” She paused for a moment. “You’re staying at _La Belle Chose_ too, aren’t you? I’ll anticipate seeing you around. You and your wife. I do hope you enjoy it.” She smiled.

He managed a grin back. “Of course, Mrs. Sinclair-White. **I’m sure I’ll love it there, just as I had anticipated.”**

Lauren nodded. “I do hope it affords you a good break to reevaluate your business and work ethic. You’ll find that sometimes the sea can do that to a person; make you think.” She leaned back against the golden rail and let her hair loose, crimson strands drifting in the wind. Kieran had an unexplainable smirk on his face as he looked at his wife.

Mr. Fairson nodded in assent. Then, he stopped and considered what she’d said.

“W-What do you mean?”

“Hm?”

“Reevaluate my business? **There’s nothing to—“**

“Oh!’ She waved a hand. “Simply the perks of a break, no? One must always introspect.” Deft pale hands gripped her shawl tighter around her, as if closing the statement for further questioning.

He let out another nervous titter and looked towards Kieran, who merely smiled with a hint of amusement. “Have a wonderful night, Mr. Fairson. We’ll see you later,” he said blithely. “And once again, I apologize for bumping into you.”

Mr. Fairson bid them goodbye as he closed the sliding door behind him, the metal clanking with disuse. As he leant back against the shuffling car door to stub out the cigar on the metal ashtray, he caught the vestiges of the couples’ conversation against the sounds of the wind:

“How long?”

“Oh, when….talking about smoke. Who was—“

“Just a man. A teller...says.”

“Well, he’s been...something... I think.”

“Don’t...about it. Seems harmless.”

“Truly?”

A pause. Then:

“Why’d you get up? Really.”

“Oh….know I don’t like trains. And I...you weren't there so...”

“I do know, _amour.”_

Another beat:

“Why did you insist….could have just taken a car.”

“Well, I know. You don’t like cars.”

Silence. Mr. Fairson stepped away from the door and made his way back to the dining car, where he found an empty seat and a cheque supposedly written by him shoved underneath a half-finished wine glass, the only indication his wife had left him that she had grown tired and gone to bed. 

He thought back to the couple standing outside. _Damn lucky bastard indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support on the first chapter!! It makes my heart soar everytime I get a comment notification/kudos! Much love
> 
> \- I’m not sure the specs of actually becoming a professor. I know that you have to have extensive schooling and also be a significant alumni of the place that asks of you, but I don’t have any idea of qualifications. Let’s just say that Kieran spent his five year prison sentence studying hardcore and then worked his ass off in college to get to Professor status. It sounded better than teacher, anyway.
> 
> \- It seems the general acceptance that Lauren can hear her own lies. I’m not sure I buy into this, considering that the text in the comic is noticeably lacking in red whenever she lies about something. I’m also sure that it’s a pretty big pitfall/kinda counterintuitive? To hear her own lies (because she knows she’s telling them anyway). Just my two cents.
> 
> \- Kieran is around 34 and Lauren is 32. It’s been 10 years since XX27, which is PH’s current timeline. 
> 
> \- This was a relatively quick update, since I had most of this chapter drafted prior to chapter 1’s posting. Expect the updates to get more intermittent as life has an ass kicking prescription for me :’) but I love working on this and will try my hardest to get these out pronto pronto.
> 
> As always, comments/kudos are sustenance and I love you all <3
> 
> \- thumbipeach


	3. All Beautiful Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why does it seem that trouble follows us wherever we go?”

Angelina Desmond was upset. 

This wasn’t unusual; as a young and spirited woman of nineteen, she was prone to occasional fits of upset. 

This just so happened to be because the rather petulant man she was currently catering to at the bar was noticeably _not_ pleased with the whiskey sour she’d just served him.

“This would get you _thrown into the street_ in the Ardhalis proper, let me tell you. This lemon slice is _despicable_ and I—”

“Mr. Grandier, I assure you that if this _was_ the Ardhalis proper, I sure as hell wouldn’t be getting a tip as lousy as this,” she quipped back, throwing the fifty pence piece the man in question had lobbed at her when he walked into the bar onto the table. 

“And I wouldn’t be wearing this style of dress, either.” she huffed underneath her breath, picking at the plain, thin white serving clothes she donned.

Mr. Grandier spluttered for a moment in indignation, then muttered something about _damned southern women_ and slapped down a 10 dollar bill, before sweeping up his wet bathing towel and exiting the bar into the hot sun outside.

_Des Angoisses_ was most probably the warmest town in all of the country. During the summer the streets were sweltering enough to fry a whole chicken coop of eggs, and thus the shops opened their windows to full mast to let what little breeze there was into their buildings. The only fully aerated building in the whole town was the famed _La Belle Chose,_ the best chateau in the area (or in all the country, as they claimed). It was situated in the valley of Fae’s Cove, with a large, sprawling setup of luxury hotel rooms and an extensive and pleasurable set of amenities, one of which included the beautiful view of the Ardhalis Southern Coast right outside, where many people of high society liked to come down for their summer getaways. 

Angelina was the daughter of the owner of the hotel, and as per a tentative agreement with her father, worked the bar and restaurant during the evenings to earn some money of her own. Her father knew that she wanted to get to the capital more than anything, and utilized that dream to its full potential. At times she hated it, but the chance to mingle and make impressions with some of Upper Ardhalis' most prominent was never something she'd pass up.

At the current moment, she was caught in the middle of those two states. On one hand, the abrasiveness of her most recent customer had put a damper on her excitement for the evening. On the other, this season's patrons were a motley mix of dramatic characters, and Angelina was thrilled at the company that had chosen to stay for the month. 

Sweeping up various trays laiden with drinks and orders, she made her way down to the embankment, where various tables filled with guests were set up. Some were swimming, some were watching the sea and talking.

The Briartons had ordered a lemon squash and a small glass of scotch. She understood them to be a couple from the Upper North of Ardhalis, Mr. Briarton being head of the Briar Investing Service. They were a relatively young couple, but it was clear that high society life had hardened them to a considerable degree. Mrs. Briarton made it a point never to consume alcohol (as evidenced by the lemon squash and the harsh reprimand Angelina received when taking her order), and Mr. Brairton's Scotch, she was sure, was soon to be depleted, like a man starved of the bitter sting at home. 

Mr. Grandier, the one who had spit in her face earlier over an unsatisfactory lemon, had gone down to the shore to bathe. Her understanding was that he was a politician from the capital, and that he was here alone on a resitve holiday. Though, if that were true, then it would explain why she didn’t know much about him in the first place. Politician he was, and secrets he kept. She saw his towel on his chair and resisted the urge to spill the offending whiskey sour on it as she set it down and walked away.

The Fairsons had ordered a pomegranate martini with soda, a hard whisky on the rocks, and a lemon cake slice. They had come in on the Nightingale the night before and were staying in one of the apartments closer to the cliffside. Mr. Fairson, she understood, was an accountant or a teller of the Harris Firm in the Ardhalis proper. Her only impression of them was that Mr. Fairson seemed quiet and tired, and Mrs. Fairson talked too much. She set down their drinks and cake and left before Mrs. Fairson could rope her into a tale about a cocktail party on the Southern End.

She could see the Rethburn's bathing towels stacked on top of each other on a chair next to the seashore. They were a young couple just out of honeymoon from the small countryside outside of the Ardhalis main. Mr. Rethburn must have been, at one time, a professional swimmer, for he was very adept at it. Looking down the embankment, she could see Mrs. Rethburn wading a few meters from shore, but Mr. Rethburn had already swam out far into the waves lining the cove and was still stroking fast. She watched his lithe and deft figure swim out into the sea as she set their matching pineapple and bourbon cocktails down on the table for them later.

She smiled as she made her way over to the last couple on the deck. The Sinclair-Whites had also arrived on the train from last night, but they were a rather understated and simple couple compared to the rest. She couldn't glean much about them, admittedly. She’d gathered that Mr. Sinclair White was a teacher or professor in central Ardhalis, and Mrs. Sinclair White did some sort of legal work, but she didn't know their exact names or professions. Despite this, she liked them. There was an air of mystery about their person that gave a kind of thrill about talking to them, yet they were evidently respectful and down-to-earth.

Not to mention, they were an attractive couple. Mrs. Sinclair-White had long auburn hair that she tied back into a thick braid and very captivating golden eyes which seemed to listen, _really_ listen to you. And her husband was quite easy on the eyes as well, with broad shoulders, a striking definition and chiseled face, hair like coal and eyes like an azure sky. 

_If all men were like that in central Ardhalis, I might have to set aside my goals for a moment,_ Angelina had thought at first seeing him. 

Mrs. Sinclair-White was dressed in a soft maroon dress that buttoned all the way down her middle, the seams fitting her body comfortably. Mr. Sinclair White was wearing a casual white dress shirt, yet the pin of his sleeves and the dip in the neck accentuated his physique and his easy manner hid an evident strength in his movements. 

When she approached their table with their drinks in hand, she caught them in deep conversation.

"You're _not_ serious. She really did that?"

"Indeed, _c’est vrai!_ I tried to talk her out of it, I did, but you know Kym. Once she gets a hair-brained idea in her head I don't think anybody can stop her."

"I would imagine. And Will wasn't upset about it?"

"Oh believe me he had transcended upset. But—"

Mrs. Sinclair-White paused her speech as she saw Angelina coming with a tray laiden with two cups of coffee and a slice of cheesecake. Setting the tray down, she received twin smiles from the two of them.

“Thank you, miss,” Mr. Sinclair-White said smoothly, lifting the cup to his lips and blowing gently. Mrs. Sinclair-White gently took the plate of cheesecake and eagerly stabbed her fork into it. Angelina turned to go, before Mrs. Sinclair-White called her back. 

“ _Attend! S’il vous plait—“_ and, much to Angelina’s chagrin and astonishment, she pulled an extra 10 pence out of her dress pocket and slipped it deftly underneath the tray. 

“Oh! _Madame,_ this isn’t—”

“No, no!” She waved a hand at her. “Please. I insist.” And threw her a wink. Angelina looked helplessly at Mr. Sinclair-White, but he merely smiled winningly and sipped his espresso with practiced nonchalance.

“I—thank you.” She gave a little embarrassed bow. Mrs. Sinclair-White just grinned and patted the table in a show of reassurance. 

“Angelina, was it? I overheard you talking to your father the night we came. You...deserve it more than we need it. _Vous doit prends soin de vous, ne c’est pas?”_

Angelina felt even more bemused. Seeing as she wasn’t getting anywhere with her, Mrs. Sinclair-White turned to her husband, who immediately cut in.

“We know when someone looks a little unhappy,” and he smiled a little ruefully, “with their position in life. Please don’t be too offended.”

Angelina dithered. “Oh, but please! The least I can do is get you another coffee. You know—” and she picked up the empty espresso cup from his fingers, “—you two are the only couple here who didn’t order any alcohol. It’s funny. Ah! But excuse that observation. _Désolée._ ” She rambled nervously.

They looked towards each other and laughed after a pause. Turning back to her, Mr. Sinclair-White gave a charming flick of his wrist and a wry smirk. “We like to keep vigilant well into the night. Wouldn’t want to lose ourselves to alcohol quite yet.”

Angelina gave a polite chuckle and nodded. “Admirable! Well, I’ll be back—“ and she picked up the polished off plate of cheesecake as well, “—with more for you two. Thank you again.”

“Ah! One more thing, Miss!”

“Yes?” She turned back to Mrs. Sinclair-White, who had a schooled expression of detachment on her face. 

“I wanted to ask...but would it be too much of a bother to remove the bouquet of hyacinths in our room?”

Angelina was puzzled. That wasn’t what she was expecting. She turned back and regarded her. The expression on her face must have been telling, for Mrs. Sinclair-White looked a little bit sheepish. She continued:

“My husband is—” and here she indicated the man beside her, who had a curious look on his face, his eyes stormy with an unnamed blankness, ” **—well, he has a rather sensitive nose.** So you see…”

“Oh! _Je comprends. Bien sur, Madame.”_ Angelina said, releasing the breath she’d been unknowingly holding. “That will be done before nightfall.”

“Thank you, Miss.” Mrs. Sinclair-White looked grateful. Angelina left, but not before noting the look of abject relief in Mr. Sinclair-White’s eyes. 

As she retreated back to the bar inside, she felt as though, finally, there was something to look forward to, once again. Every summer season.

———

Kieran was sketching the sea. 

He dragged the pencil lightly across the paper, shading in the dark shadows of the undertow and the rocks near the cove. Looking back out to the water to assess his work, he caught in the corner of his eye an amused face trained out to sea. He looked at Lauren, her fork poised above her cheesecake slice and eyes on the sprawling ocean, and smiled affectionately at the absent awe on her face. Touching the tip of his pencil on the metalwork of the table, he set it down with practiced ease.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" 

She turned back to him, the sea waves still caught in her golden eyes. "Yes, it is! It's different than in photographs, that is certain."

**"Ah yes, I was talking about the sea."**

She considered him for a moment, then blushed a comely pink and averted her gaze. "Will you ever stop saying such embarrassing things?"

He chuckled. "Never, _amour_. I live only to embarrass you." He resumed his vigilance of the choppy waves below

"That is certainly clear enough," Lauren replied with acute amusement. She tucked a piece of hair that had blown out of her braid behind her ear and cut her fork into her cheesecake. Bringing it up to her lips and savoring the flavor, she looked to him again when he began to speak.

"I've...never seen the sea before." He spoke slowly, articulating his thoughts in the way he tended to when he was hesitant about speaking his mind. 

It had gotten easier as the years went by, but it had taken a while for him to say what he wanted to without speaking in half-truths, in averted gazes and glazed over eyes. It had taken him a while to be comfortable with sharing anything at all, but here he was, now. 

Lauren hummed to let him know she was listening, and he continued rather bashfully. 

"I...well, I never thought I ever would... Leave the capital. I mean—I just,” and he looked down at his hands, stained with little specks of graphite, “I never would have thought I’d be here.”

Lauren frowned and her eyes pulled into an expression of sorrow. Setting down her fork onto the plate with a soft _clack,_ she placed her hand on the table, palm up. An invitation, one that they had established long ago for an unspoken question that they were too jaded to be able to articulate. He answered it by placing his hand in hers, his pencil-scrubbed fingers brushing reverently over the callouses from her gun on her palm.

For a while, they said nothing to each other, simply looked out to sea. They didn't need to. Then, Lauren raised her head from her other hand and turned scrutinous eyes towards her husband. 

"Kieran...are you happy?"

He turned to her in surprise. He noted the worrying of her lip between her teeth, the tight palm, the solemn question in her eyes. His heart swelled a little and he squeezed her hand in assurance.

"Lauren...” and he paused to reach out and brush a crimson strand behind a pearl-adorned ear, “I am the happiest I have ever been in my life. Believe me."

She considered the statement, then smiled in satisfaction and squeezed his hand in turn. He gazed softly at his wife.

“I’m free. I have friends, a home, a career…” he looked into Lauren’s eyes, “...and, of course, the luxury of a woman _head over heels_ in love with me!” He gave her his signature devilish smirk.

Lauren was caught off guard for a moment, but quickly fell into the typical quips they were accustomed to. Leaning forward and rolling her eyes, she challenged him playfully. “Now, now, subordinate. Who says I’m in love with you, hm?”

“Well, I remember you saying something to the contrary _last night—”_

_“You—”_

They were interrupted by the sound of someone calling out a jovial “Ahoy there!” They looked back towards the chateau to a little man coming down the hill towards their table.

They had met Evan Bessly the night before when they had overheard him regaling the hotel staff with a tale of the creation of the world in his very own words. Kieran had judged him to be somewhat of a religious zealot, and when they introduced themselves on a fancy they gleaned that he was here to write a report for his organization on the dangers and pitfalls of excess. Kieran and Lauren had found it quite amusing at the time.

He dragged a chair from the opposite chair and sat opposite to the both of them. Taking out an alarmingly large stack of leaflets, each delicately embroidered with pen strokes and frantic crossings, he sat back in his chair with a sigh.

“Ah, the air here! Heaven sent, no?”

Kieran, not wanting to unceremoniously turn the man away, agreed in a rather subdued manner. Casting a glance at his wife, she gave an imperceptible shrug and her golden eyes held a dance of amusement. It was a game, now.

“Indeed, Sir Bessly. Are you finding your stay here comfortable so far?” Kieran asked, covertly pushing Mr. Bessly’s leaflets into a neat pile away from his coffee cup, inspecting one that said in rather bold lettering, “The Folly of Base Desires.” 

Well then.

“Oh of course my good man! I didn’t think I would due to all the…” and here he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “...frivolities of the nobility. But you know, I am really enjoying it!”

Lauren smiled at him. “That’s quite wonderful to hear, sir! And your...project? How is that going along for you?” 

Mr. Bessly turned and regarded her with a bit of excitement. “Well, _Madame,_ it’s been going. The current chapter—the 58th of 100–is on evil, particularly. And it’s derivatives, of course.”

“Really? Evil? Pray tell us, Mr. Bessly.” Lauren looked towards Kieran, who raised an eyebrow playfully and turned his attention to the eccentric man as he began to extol.

“Well you see, Mrs. Sinclair-White,” and again he crouched his head and lowered his voice, so much so that his companions had to lean in to hear him, “I am a firm believer in the presence of evil in this world. It is everywhere, _everywhere_ I say!” 

He gestured out to sea. “It’s in the sea waves! In the cool air. Evil must exist for goodness to grow, but that does not mean that we should fall prey to it!”

Lauren began to look a little uneasy, but she masked it with a cut into the crust of her cheesecake and nary but a furtive glance at Kieran. Kieran himself began to feel little tendrils of discomfort twist up into his veins. He didn’t enjoy where the conversation was going.

Mr. Bessly continued. “You know, when _Lune_ and the Scythe attacked _L’Eglise_ all those years ago, I was in my study, and I said to myself: _‘Evan, to attack a church as such is indicative of the presence of evil!’_ And what did I know, that indeed it was! The abolishment of the Scythe was just the beginning! Evil still lingers in this world, after all.” And with that, he took out a pen and began to scribble in the margins. His declaration left Kieran feeling rigid and cold, and when he looked back at his wife he could see the beginnings of cold dread beginning to seep into her face. _He definitely did not like where this was going._

They still froze up whenever something pertaining to 10 years ago was mentioned. He would have thought that they were past it, that _Ardhalis_ was past it, but it still lingered like the shadows cast by the Phantom Scythe so long ago. 

Looking back out to the sea Mr. Bessly had been gesticulating towards in an attempt to hide his anxiety from the man, he saw a woman getting out of the water and walking up to the deck. 

Mrs. Tina Rethburn was a young woman—about twenty-three odd—and had fair and complementary features due to that singular youth. Her blonde hair fell mid shoulder, and she had a rather plain, pale face that held intelligent, dancing brown eyes. She wasn’t necessarily attractive in a conventional sense--she was a bit washed out—but she evidently had brains and charm. She was pretty—in a muted sense. But pretty nonetheless.

She dried herself off with the towel at her table and greeted Mrs. Fairson, who had enthusiastically commented on the elegance of her yellow bathing attire. She waved at Lauren and Lauren waved hesitantly back as she made her way over to where the three were seated. Even Mr. Bessly stopped his rambling and smiled up at her.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” She said, and her voice was soft and friendly.

Lauren nodded. “Indeed it is! Is the water nice?”

Mrs. Rethburn said it was and plopped down into a wicker chair with her cocktail. “It’s soothing! Of course, I’m not exactly a _swimmer_ like my husband, but it’s still wonderful to go for a little lap anyhow.”

Kieran motioned towards the sea, where a man could just be seen stroking towards the shore. “That’s your husband just coming up, isn’t it?”

Mr. Rethburn was around the same age as his wife, with a strong, toned body and chiseled features. He could be seen emerging from the water, running a strong hand through thick brown waves of hair. He was handsome, in the quiet way that women seemed to be drawn to. Mrs. Rethburn nodded excitedly and waved a hand towards her husband. “Patrick!! Over here!” 

They could see him smile up at where his wife was seated and begin to make his way up the embankment. Kieran turned to Mrs. Rethburn, making polite conversation. “How long have you two been married?” He asked. She blushed, rather embarrassed.

“Just a little over a year now. I know, it’s not much, but…”

Kieran waved a hand. “Please. You two are cute.”

She smiled gratefully. “And you?” She turned to regard the both of them. “What about you?”

“Oh, we’re coming up on five years. It’s been a while.” Lauren replied, smiling at Kieran a little. He chuckled. A while it had been. 

Mrs. Rethburn regarded them for a moment, then let loose a peal of laughter. It was a nice laugh, with a rich quality and a joyous nature that made you want to laugh along too. “You two are cute as well!”

When they looked puzzled, and Mr. Bessly looked decidedly uncomfortable being the only single at the table, she said, “The way you two look at each other! I can only hope that persists when me and Pat get to five.”

Lauren cocked an eyebrow and looked at Kieran, her eyes alight with amusement and affection. Kieran winked and grinned wickedly back, replying, “It will, if you manage enough.” 

He leaned in conspiratorially to a delighted Mrs. Rethburn and stage whispered, **“The secret is to always go along with whatever your husband says, and—“**

He felt a sharp kick under the table from Lauren, and when he exclaimed and jumped back she laughed and crossed her legs underneath her maroon skirts. “Don’t listen to him, Mrs. Rethburn! He’s wholly dependent on me anyways, as I’m always in the right—“

“Oh, you wish, darling. _Who_ was the one who got us stuck in that hallway at the police ball--”

“Oh, that was _definitely_ you, _mon bonheur,_ how could I possibly get us stuck in a place that I know like the back of my hand?”

“I don’t know--you did, if I recall correctly.”

“Well, had it ever occurred to you that you’re not recalling correctly at all, dearest?”

**“The thought never chanced my mind,** **_amour.”_ **

They delved into soft banter, and Mrs. Rethburn and Mr. Bessly made eye contact between the two of them. After a pause, Mrs. Rethburn laughed again and Mr. Bessly reluctantly let out an awkward chuckle.

Suddenly, as if a curtain had been drawn over a stage, everything on the beach seemed to still. A hush fell over the dregs of conversation amongst the tables. Kieran and Lauren paused to notice that everyone was now looking up at the chateau, where a woman had just opened the sliding glass door to her room and was making her way down to the beach.

The woman made the soft, gentle features of Tina Rethburn look like a wilted and dying flower. She was stunning, her long red hair falling in voluptuous waves down her back and her stride like a graceful fox. She walked with knowing and intention, as if she _knew_ that she was the only thing anybody on the beach could look at. She wore a tight lime green swimsuit that complimented her figure, and a bright green jade hat that barely concealed her face, which was at the same time sharp and smooth, angles where there should be angles and curves where there should be curves. As she walked down the embankment towards the shore like Aphrodite rising from the sea, every man on the beach turned to watch. And she walked with confidence, almost like an actress’ entrance. A scene in a play. 

Mr. Bessly leaned in to the Sinclair-Whites. “Now that,” he pointed, “is the embodiment of evil. Right there. That woman.”

They watched in mild discomfort as Mr. Rethburn, who had been making a steady trek back up towards the pier, suddenly veered off course like a compass without its point, and made a beeline for the mysterious woman as she reached the shore. Kieran stole a glance at Mrs. Rethburn, who looked a little like someone had just splashed ice water on her face. 

“Oh...darling.” They heard Mrs. Fairson pipe up a little ways down. “That’s...yours, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Rethburn could barely hide a fleeting grimace before she schooled her face into one of impassivity. “Yes. It is,” she said, her sentences clipped and short. 

The woman was talking to Mr. Rethburn, who was looking animated and bashful. Blushing and unfocused. The company assembled watched as she waved a delicate wrist in his direction, and he began to follow her down the shore a little like a lost puppy. Kieran looked over at Mrs. Rethburn again, who had taken a big swig of her cocktail, the little pineapple slice sliding down the long glass. She did not say anything. 

Kieran leaned over to Lauren. “Reminds one a bit of Belladonna, no?” He whispered lowly, so only she could hear. Lauren, still not taking her eyes off of the dubious couple now walking the shore, nodded knowingly. “Yes indeed. I suppose there are women like that everywhere.”

Kieran agreed. He hadn’t seen or heard of Belladonna for some years now, not since she was released from her sentence around the same time his had been lifted. She’d said something about moving back to her hometown in the North, wherever that was, before disappearing for good, leaving not even a wisp of her perfume behind. The Viper was no more, as was most of the Phantom Scythe from the moment _L’Eglise_ fell. It seemed, however, that she was still lingering in spirit.

Mr. Bessly caught their conversation. “Yes, women like that are the devil, I’ll tell you! No brains, no class! They only know how to beguile and stray good men further away from chastity!” He declared. “Men adore them, women scorn them! It’s simply how it is.”

Kieran didn’t need to doubt the verity of that statement, for however uncomfortable it was, it seemed to be true. All the men on the beach were enraptured with the seemingly fae-like creature that had just emerged, and all the women were looking at them with displeasure and casting glares at the couple now rounding the bend of the cove. It appeared that Mrs. Challenger was the type of woman who won the affection of many men but earned the scorn of many of her own sex.

“Who is she, anyways?” He heard Lauren ask Mr. Bessly. He huffed and answered. 

“A Mrs. Aria Challenger, I’m led to believe. High society. Upper Ardhalis.” Mr. Bessly looked at Lauren. “Arrived the night you did, I believe.”

Lauren nodded and looked back at the two figures, one walking in a monotone step and the other’s thin skirts billowing behind her like an angel’s toga. Or a devil’s cape. 

But as Kieran scanned the embankment and noted the similar expressions on people’s faces, one caught his eye as an outlier.

“I see there’s one man who doesn’t seem to be interested.” Kieran noted, pointing. They looked up near the cliffside balconies, where a man in swimming trunks lay sprawled across a chair, his legs kicked up, reading a leather bound book and looking, among other things, wholly disinterested.

“Ah...that would be the husband. Admiral Challenger,” said Mr. Bessly, with an inflection in his voice that Kieran could not discern. 

“Husband, huh?” Lauren questioned, her eyes curious. She threw a glance at Kieran and he responded with a quirk of the eyebrow. 

“Indeed. Been married for four years now, and it’s _his_ second.” Mr. Bessly confided, looking rather sheepish at disclosing such intimate information. “Hear his last one ended badly, anyhow. Though I’m not familiar with details.”

“Seems you know a lot, Mr. Bessly,” Kieran intoned, keeping his face and tone blase. Lauren hid a small smirk by turning to look at Mrs. Rethburn, who was still looking forlornly out to where her husband was chatting amiably with the aforementioned Mrs. Challenger. She laid her hand on the table next to her in silent question, but she did not acknowledge it. While Mr. Bessly turned a cherry red and muttered something about “ _savoir-faire,”_ Mrs. Rethburn huffed and finished off of her cocktail with alarming speed. 

**“I don’t see the appeal, frankly,”** she said in a clipped tone, surprisingly strong for how much alcohol she’d imbibed. “ **But if we’re counting,** I rather think her husband should be more concerned.” She turned to Lauren, and her intelligent, knowing brown eyes held a note of something unsavory in them. “I wish you and your husband well, Mrs. Sinclair-White,” she said, with a tone that indicated something to the contrary. 

Casting a last glance at Kieran, she stood up and strode over to her table. Setting down the cocktail glass, remnants of the liquid still draining from the top, she picked up her towel and made her way down to the beach to meet her husband, who was breaking away from the alluring Mrs. Challenger with some reluctance and striding forth to greet his young wife. Kieran and Lauren watched the scene with a note of discomfort as Mrs. Rethburn slung her arm into her husband’s, and they walked back to the chateau together, steps aligned.

The embankment was silent for a few moments, then the conversation slowly started back up again. Kieran overheard Mrs. Fairson, the wife of the man from the train last night, her voice carrying in the soft South Ardhalis breeze. 

_The poor wife._

Sneaking a view back up at the balcony, Kieran marked the absence of the Admiral. The book lay forgotten on the wicker chair, the pages blowing unmarked in the wind. 

Mr. Bessly turned to the Sinclair-Whites. “It seems my point has been proven before I managed to even try to!” he declared with a hint of triumph. “Evil is everywhere in this world.”

“Don’t we know it, Mr. Bessly.” And Lauren’s voice was a little haunted. Kieran felt ice in his blood. He didn’t say anything as Mr. Bessly made an excuse that he must get ready for dinner later that evening, and gathered his leaflets into a messy pile before beginning the steep trek back to the chateau main. 

That left Lauren and Kieran alone at their table. They looked at each other for a few moments, communicating silently, steadily, their eyes carrying on a conversation too complex for words. Then, Lauren sighed and leaned back in her chair, letting the sea wind whip the strands that had fallen out of her tight braid. She gazed up at the sky before climbing forwards again, placing her palm up on the table. 

Kieran took it and squeezed it before lowering his voice and whispering, “For what it’s worth, _mon cœur,_ I think you’re worth all of them combined, and then some.”

Her cheeks flecked with a rosy blush. She laughed joyously, and for all the bells and chimes that Mrs. Rethburn’s laugh had, it still held nothing against hers. Light, full. Free. She reached out to brush tendrils of inky black bangs from his face, before brushing the tips of her fingers against his jaw and bringing it down to rest lightly on the table. “Why does it seem that trouble follows us wherever we go?” She said, half jokingly. 

Kieran sighed. “Ah, well. All beautiful things, no?”

“All beautiful things, _mon coeur.”_

The sea rattled with the sound of waves. Somewhere, back at the chateau, dinner was being prepared. And outside, on the pier, two people sat, hands intertwined, two souls against the crimson current of the impending sunset.

All beautiful things it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long darling readers! Hope the wait was worth it <3 Makes up for it by being quite long, I hope.
> 
> \- The Agatha Christie comes on strong with this one. Since many people think her books are antiquated I’m anticipating nobody to have read them, but if you’ve ever taken a gander at Evil Under the Sun you know exactly the scene I’m ripping from here. I’m a sucker for the petty relationship drama, true to form. Don’t expect the story to go exactly as planned though!! I have a couple of surprises planned ;)
> 
> \- It was difficult making the first part of this. I considered cutting it out altogether but I was held by the feeling that it definitely added something to the story. So enjoy Angelina, she’s gonna make more appearances.
> 
> \- Vous doit prends soin de vous-You must take care of yourself (if my French is correct). The other phrases I’m sure are fairly easy. Please feel free to bash my clumsy French if necessary, I’m still learning :’)
> 
> \- Love you all, and, as always, kudos/comments are cheesecake <3
> 
> -thumbipeach


	4. Over a Broken Vase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is still much...conflict in this world, no?”

The following morning, when dawn broke the surface of the waves outside, Lauren was having breakfast of eggs and toast out on the pier once again when she was abruptly joined by a tall woman in a tart, cherry colored sundress. 

Kieran and her had eaten together, but he’d finished and gone off early to deliver some letters and buy supplies from the port town, leaving her alone to contemplate in the solace of the morning. She appreciated the subtle quiet brought on by the quaking of the waves and the crying of seagulls; however, that was soon short lived, as everyone seemed to want to get a word in to her and her husband at some point.

Lauren rather liked Rosa Darnley. She was tall and spritely and clever, and had a hint of carefully placed eccentricity about her that reminded Lauren vaguely of Kym. She was a fashion designer from the center of the capital, and knew Lauren on sight from when she had designed a dress for her a couple of years back for the inaugural ceremony. Always fashionably dressed and prompt, she carried with her a certain and unchallenged air of respectability. So when she ensconced herself delicately in the wicker chair across from Lauren and excitedly bit into a strawberry croissant, Lauren found she could not find it in her to be too disappointed at the abrupt lack of solitude. 

“Ms. Darnley! How goes it?”

“ _Please,_ call me Rosa, Mrs. Sinclair-White.”

“ _Eh bien_ , call me Lauren, Rosa.”

“ _Oh,_ quite! Indeed, It goes, Lauren! How are you enjoying your first trip here hm?” She flicked a delicate wrist vaguely up at the chateau, towards Lauren and Kieran’s rooms. “Stoked the fireplace yet, hm?”

Lauren blushed and laughed, remembering dully that Rosa was the type of woman to eschew a censor without any abashedness, which incidentally earned her a fair amount of scorn back in the proper of Ardhalis main. “No, no, Rosa. Nothing vulgar this morning.”

Rosa smirked. “With a husband such as yours? My, I’d--”

“ _Enough, enough.”_ Lauren chided lightly, sharing in the banter. It had been a while since she’d felt so carefree. Taking this trip had been good for her, she suspected. 

The workload of the chief of police in the capital had been thoroughly lessened by the dissolving of the Phantom Scythe ten years prior, but some things still lingered, as was their wont. Right up into the night of their departure she'd been buried in the last formalities of closing a murder-suicide case that had been eroding her mind for the past month. 

She remembered that day last week, when Kieran came back from a day at work with a map in his hand and a signature gleam of adventure in his eyes.

_Hearing the soft click of her home office door opening and shutting, she looked up to see her husband leaning against the door, home from the university. He had the signature weight of the day set in his shoulders and face, and spots of white paint dotted his cotton sleeves, but his eyes glinted with vestiges of mischief underneath the mess of his bangs._

_"Drop your things, love. We have a job to do!" He spoke softly, yet excitedly, setting down his briefcase on the stool by the door and moving behind her desk elegantly. She cocked an eyebrow and set down her pen, the ink trail forgotten on the page._

_"And what job would that be?" She rose up to meet him as he stopped by her chair. Drawing her close, he pressed his forehead onto hers and kissed the top of her head. She swiped a dollop of paint where it had come to rest on his cheek. Then, he stepped back and held out a map. Upon further inspection, it was a map of the Ardhalis South Coast, with a little red marker by a place near the cliffsides._

_"The job, dearest officer, is a vacation!"_

Rosa set down the uneaten half of her croissant and licked her fingers of strawberry compote. Looking softly at Lauren, she said, "You _are_ looking much better, my dear. I think this was good for you. Police work is difficult, I must imagine!" 

Lauren nodded. "Yes indeed. I was hesitant when Kieran brought up the idea, but ultimately I think I'm grateful I agreed in the end."

Rosa tsked. "Everybody and their mother in central Ardhalis knows you work yourself to death well into the night. I think you should do this more often, if we're being honest." She fell silent, looking back out to sea. Then, she turned back and leaned forward.

"Not...to bring up work right after I've just outlawed talking about it, but...that case you were finishing up," she bit her lip, "has it been cleared up? You know who did it?"

Lauren sighed, pain--an old friend--creeping into her temples. "We think so. The witness's statements corroborate what we saw at the crime scene. Mrs. Allory shot her husband, then herself. There were bills in the safe, marked with a furious pen. The maid who found them said they'd been struggling with money for some time, and that the lady of the house was four months with child. I suppose it explains itself."

Rosa nodded solemnly and grimaced. "There is still much...conflict in this world, no? I'm so, _so_ glad the Scythe is gone, but it makes one realize just how much we as a city have been chalking up to their actions while ignoring that some people are just...not right," she finished uncomfortably. Lauren looked down at her hands to avoid Rosa detecting the mounting anxiety she felt creeping into her fingertips. 

Yes...that was so, wasn't it? She and Kieran had been acutely aware of that fact for a while. That while the Scythe was gone, that did not truly banish the evil from the city they lived in. There were always things, lurking in the shadows, moving like ghosts. 

_Evil is everywhere in this world. Everywhere, I say!_

Breathe _, breathe._ She felt unconsciously for her wrist below her sleeves. Felt her pulse, thudding a steady rhythm. Calmed her quickening intakes of the salty air. 

Rosa waved a hand, noticing the blank look creeping into her companion's face. "Many apologies darling! I didn't mean to--"

Lauren shook her head and gave her a strained smile. "No no, my friend. I am fine." She stirred the small spoon in her cup of coffee absently. 

They were silent for a couple moments. Then, Lauren noticed Rosa looking up at the chateau with a curious expression. Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, she gave a sharp gasp and leant forward in her chair, nearly causing Lauren to spill her coffee on her dress. 

"Is that--?" 

Lauren looked quickly up towards where she was pointing. Seeing the familiar figure of Admiral Challenger on the balcony, in much the same position he had been the day before, she looked back at Rosa with a curious expression. 

"You know him?"

"That's--that's _Ken,_ isn't it?"

"Ken?"

Rosa turned back to her, and to Lauren’s surprise there was a faint blush on her flustered cheeks. "Kenneth Challenger, no? I'm not wrong, that _is_ him _! Oh!"_

She ran a hand abstractedly through her strawberry blonde curls, mussing up the delicate arrangement and revealing small ears adorned with small diamond studs. 

"So you do know him, then?" asked Lauren, with a hint of amusement.

Rosa nodded vigorously. "Yes! We--we were friends as children, we used to play together when we were much younger! I haven't seen him in some years, now! **I didn't even know where he was!** My, what am I saying, I didn't even know he was _here!"_

Lauren raised an eyebrow at the lie, but said nothing to the effect. She lifted her cup up to her lips to hide the small smirk that was threatening to spread.

“ _Childhood friend,_ huh? _Un beau de copain!_ ” 

Rosa shot her a look. “ **Nothing like that,** don’t be silly. Besides, he’s married again now, isn’t he?” She looked back up to the balcony, where the man in question had settled with the brown book once again, thumbing a page absentmindedly.

Lauren frowned a little. “Yes. His wife’s been the talk of the chateau lately. Were you out here yesterday?”

“No, but I did hear a little bit about it when I ran across Mrs. Fairson and Mrs. Briarton when I was getting this,” she confirmed, holding up the tail remnants of the pastry. “Much gossip. Apparently his wife is that alluring creature that’s been strutting around like she’s the emerald in the queen’s diadem? An Aria Challenger, I’m led to understand. Knew her a bit before her marriage. Designed a gown for something or other for her once.” She looked rather reminiscent. “That woman may be a she-devil, but she looks good in anything, she does.”

“One can see.” Lauren grimaced feebly, setting down her coffee with an audible clack. “Mrs. Rethburn...I feel bad. Her husband...Mr. Rethburn, that is--seemed quite infatuated with her upon first sight.”

Rosa hummed and shook her head. “You know, I have heard some talk of her from the capital. Bit of a…well, you know."

Lauren murmured indistinguishably in response. “A bit of a what exactly, Rosa?”

“Well…” and she leaned in real close, her hair dangling and twisting onto the table, “she’s had a lot of male friends, that one. Rumor has it, before Ken--Mr. Challenger, she’d had another lover, an old salt, left her absolutely everything in his will! Then, immediately after he’s off, she goes on with another man, named Rockerfeller. Quite enamored, he was. Any man would be.” She tosses a furtive glance towards the balcony again. 

“Anyway, time goes on, he proposes, gives her jewels, the works. Then, he decided at the last minute he wouldn't marry her! Absolutely put off to the idea. Caused quite a scandal at the time.” She frowned. “Didn’t you hear? I’d assume that as the chief of police, you’d have some knowledge of the goings-on of central Ardhalis.”

Lauren thinned her lips. “I don’t really...associate with the rumor mill. Or most of the noble families. Just something I keep away from unless it’s for a job.” She felt a dull clench around her heart again. _Gardens, trellises full of daisies, white hair, a laugh like Yuletide chimes--_

Rosa shook her head. “Would be beneficial to you, let me say.” She looked back up towards the chateau, where Kenneth Challenger lay reading the same leather-bound pages he had been the night before. 

Lauren mimicked her gaze. Kenneth Challenger was all hard lines and gruff face, but there was a certain timidity in him that Lauren could not pinpoint. A kind of shrinking, like a wilting rose in a bushel of crisp white blooms.

After a couple moments, she was embarrassed to find that their stares had locked. His green eyes bored into hers threateningly, like a challenge, like a man scorned. But there was something else there. Fear? _Fear, was it?_

Abashed, she quickly averted her gaze. But not before she saw him go through the same motions Rosa had earlier upon noticing who she was sitting by. It seemed they shared the same sentiment; they hadn’t known the other was here.

Interesting. 

Finishing the last of her coffee, she stood up and swept crumbs off of her white morning attire. “Well, Ms. Darnley, I best be back to my rooms. I have to finish writing some letters to the capital before Kieran gets back.”

“Still working?” Rosa muttered absently, but her focus was on the man upstairs. As Lauren walked back, she noted in her peripheral Rosa rising swifty and making her way to her own room, her delicate hands preoccupied with wild gesticulations, in a direction Lauren could only guess.

Lauren unlocked the door to the room she and Kieran had in the chateau, kicking off her sandals by where carpet met hardwood. Clicking the door shut behind her, she took an instinctual, quick survey of the room. The bed was unmade from the night before, their clothes strewn about the floor (so she did lie a little to Rosa, but that was her secret to keep).

She continued to scrutinize, taking stock of the locked closet door, the lack of disorder not already known. No skeletons. No surprises. Not anymore, now. 

As she made her way over to the desk by the bed, littered with miscellaneous papers and drafts, she stopped and noted the absence of the pot of purple hyacinths by the balcony window. They were there in every room and corner of the hotel, as a polite acknowledgement to the royal family far from the capital, so it was difficult to escape them. Lauren smiled a little tightly as a familiar fragment of _something_ floated in her heart at the sight of the spot where the bunches had once been planted.

It had been ten years. Ten years of happiness, yes, that was undeniable. But that did nothing to erase the fact that she’d look apprehensively at the stalks of hyacinths kept up in the office; she’d still throw helpless glances towards the towering spirals of _L’Eglise_ on her commute to work every morning; she’d walk in to a study gilded with gold to see Kieran staring at a blank canvas with a haunted look on his face; she’d wake up to her own screams, to hallucinations of guilt and gladioli, and she knew that some part of her will always be caught in the years where she did nothing but hang onto vestiges of vengeance and hate, hate, _hate._

_Oh assassin, assassin. How you cut me._

_But I am the one bleeding, mon cœur._

Shaking herself a little, a shake like a bull terrier resolving itself to the hunt, she sat at the little desk and began to write.

———

Kieran never had a particular aversion to crowds.

On the contrary, often they had been a kind of security for him. He would flit through them unnoticed and undetected, a stalking wolf among sheep. The ladies would chat about their clothes and their fineries, or about their families and their house staff, and the men would discuss politics and business, their dependents and how irritating they were, and in the midst of it the monster would wade among the innocent, clad in simple clothing, unassuming attire, a blank expression on his face as his mind raced to a track of anything but. 

When he walks through the main town of _Des Angoisses,_ he falls instinctively into this same routine, despite it being over a decade since he’d had the need for it. Steps light, face a school of impassivity. When he finally notices what exactly he’s doing, it’s when he finds himself unconsciously tailing a man who had looked at him for far longer than needed.

He stops in the middle of the cobbled street, bag of stationary and postage stamps dangling from his fingers, ones that should be reaching for a comforting presence at his hip, striking quicker than lightning. Instead, he turns to see the dirty looks of people who’ve had to maneuver around his still form, thus rendering him noticed and noted. Embarrassed, he moves again, but the cold does not leave him.

_Enough._ He shakes his head and looks around. Throngs of people pass by with him, like a wave of the ocean just behind him. He is insignificant, unimportant. He sighs. He walks.

He’d gone to the post office to mail a series of letters and to buy some extra stationary for Lauren. A letter to the housekeepers back at the manor, reminding them to refuse all the flower salesman’s offers of purple blooms; a letter to Kym and Will, informing them that they were safe and well (they could wire, but Lauren liked to write, felt it was personal); a letter to the school board, notes for the substitute on the coursework. And several remaining reports from the Allory case that Lauren had stubbornly brought along with her that had yet to be filed back in the capital. A last few things before they settled down for a proper vacation. 

He snorted at the thought. _That woman never stops_. He knew with a certainty that Lauren would be on her deathbed and still have a gun in hand, a gleam in her eye, a steady voice dictating the specifics. 

He knew because he’d imagined the scenario too many times for his liking.

_Oh officer, officer. How you wound me._

_You are the one who holds the blade, my love._

He turns when a young boy at a flower stall hawks him and several others on the street, pushing little forget-me-nots and holly bushels into his face. He stops and kneels down, pointing to the little bunch of small white flowers that lay nearly neglected at the bottom of the booth. Tossing a couple of pence pieces to the eager boy, he finds himself walking away with the stem of a single daisy twirling in his fingertips. 

_Some things will change. Others won’t. It is a matter of consequence which the tides choose to move._

Walking briskly back to the chateau, he trails up the streets as the people dwindle, the faces bleeding away until there is nobody up the walkway to the main doors. He goes on in silence, the only sounds the swaying of his coat, the click in his shoes, the shifts of the wind. Then, he stops. For there are voices that carry, and they come from the small nook right by the main entrance. 

“ _Aria…”_

Kieran could not have known Patrick Rethburn’s voice by heart, for he’d never actually heard it before. But he surmised that the raspy, endearing tone probably belonged to him--whose else’s could have spoken with such a drawl, the signature lightness of a man who leaves women trailing after him? Kieran stiffened, frozen dead in the middle of the walkway for a few fatal moments. 

Then, instinct took over. He leapt quietly into the shadow cast by the awning, tucking himself into the darkness like it was a cloak. Unseen. Unknown, once again. Peering around the corner, he caught the silk draperies of Aria Challenger peeking through the lines of light.

“You know I’m--”

“ _I know, chèri.”_ Her voice was a fox’s, smooth and seductive. A goal, an end. It would put any sane man to his knees. 

“But listen, it’s ok, isn’t it? I know you love me. I know you do. _You do, don’t you?”_

“I do, Aria, you know you’ve always driven me absolutely crazy. But--my wife--”

“She won’t know.”

“She _does_ know Aria, what you did yesterday, it was--”

“I know, and I feel bad for her, _le pauvre bichon._ But Pat, I cannot bear to be apart from you.”

Patrick sighed, a long delicate one, but one that had no real negative sentiment. An almost happy, contented sigh. “And your husband, _mon bien-aimé?_ What of him? _”_

Here Aria Challenger’s voice soured and turned an ugly puce. “What of him? He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He hasn’t for some time, then.”

Patrick said nothing for a moment. The water lapped at the shore. The seagulls crowed. Then:

“Alright, dearest. For you.”

Kieran had heard enough. Slipping out deftly, he rejoined the light and entered the chateau main with nothing to indicate the spying he’d just been partaking in. Steps light, face neutral. He passed the girl from yesterday in the lobby, and she stopped him with a quick “ _Attênd! Monsieur_ Sinclair-White!”

He turned and regarded her, still tensed up slightly. Perhaps she sensed it, or perhaps something in his face gave her pause, for she stopped hesitantly with a questioning look in her wide blue eyes. He gestured for her to continue, and she snapped back. 

“I took the pot of hyacinths out of you and your wife’s room, as requested. I’ve kept it here, in case it ever comes up that you want it back.” She gestured to the pot in question, the yellow clay housing twelve delicate hyacinths, a deep lavender color. The pot itself is worn, a crack seeping its way up from the base. He looks at it with a sense of detachment he knows like a friend. He does not register the tightness in his breath and the budding anxiety on Angelina’s face. 

Coming back to, he smiles tightly at the girl. “ _Ah...pardonne._ The scent…”

She gasps. “Oh, I’m—” 

“No no! It’s quite alright, I’ll just--” and he leaves, taking the stairs two at a time, hurriedly, a little stupidly. He feels it is, anyhow. Purple flowers and the dark vine of the broken pot reach into his mind. Downstairs, he can hear the sound of Aria Challenger’s delicate heels clicking up the steps. He does not waste more time. 

He makes his way to the door of their room and raps a tune, one that Lauren will recognize, to announce his presence. Then, he unlocks it swiftly and shuts it behind him, running a frantic hand through his dark hair to soothe his racing pulse. 

He finds her still at the desk, the afternoon light framing her face like a halo, curving over the delicate slope of her shoulders as she hunches them over the papers strewn about the wooden desk. He knows she knows he’s there. She always does, they always feel each other’s presences like a disturbance of still water. 

_Some things change. Some don’t. Pick and choose which to attend to, and then cherish them. For they are your guiding beacons._

Dropping the bag of stationary by the door, he strides over to her in long, quick movements. And ever so gently, he lays the single daisy near where her arm rests, and perches on the table. It is a juxtaposition, a stark dichotomy, to before. It nearly jarrs him, the sudden domesticity. 

She looks up, and the look that he had chosen and resolved to cherish graces her face. She smiles affectionately at him, and brings the daisy up to her lips. He softens. She notices.

“You look tense, _mon bonheur.”_ She holds up her palm once more, a tried and true dance, and he takes it again, like he always will. “Did something happen?” She asks with a hint of worry.

He is about to shake his head no and answer as such, when he considers the lie and retracts it.

“Nothing happened...but I am—” and he goes silent, the dread building once again.

  
She understands his silence, like only she can. Standing up from the table, she takes his hand in hers and presses her forehead to his. They stay like that for lengths and heartbeats, the sun beating onto their faces, the distant sound of voices on the pier a comforting white noise to the torrent within. They are each their own anchors, their own safeguards.

She holds up the daisy between them, smiling softly. “All beautiful things.”

He takes her hand and kisses it, then brings his face up to hers and kisses her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips. “All beautiful things,” he murmurs. 

Then, he clears his mind and shakes his head, and they are back to the lightness of a regular couple. “Anyway, I’ve heard. Mr. Rethburn is _definitely_ cheating on his wife. With that woman from yesterday.”

Lauren raises an eyebrow and sits next to him on the desk, their shoulders touching. “Doesn’t surprise me,” she says blithely. “She has that kind of way about her. And she’s rather beautiful, there’s that.”

Kieran snorts.“You think so?” He turns to her. She does not look abashed, merely curious as she raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I’ve had enough of women like her for one lifetime. Besides—” and he lays his head on her shoulder, the black curls of night tickling her neck—“I have a bit of a thing for police officers who threaten my life and hold pistols to my head.”

She snorts affectionately. “I haven’t made an attempt in a while, haven’t I, my subordinate?”

**“I eagerly await it,** my dearest superior.”

“Don’t stay up too late anticipating when I might strike.”

“I stay up thinking of you anyway, what difference would it make?”

She hits his arm and hides her face beneath her bangs, but he doesn’t miss the flustered blush spreading across her cheeks. He laughs, and it is a genuine one.   
  


Lauren goes quiet once more, face clouding over. “What—that man, Mr. Bessly. What he said yesterday...it’s been weighing on me,” she admits. Kieran doesn’t say anything, merely squeezes her hand on the table to let her know he is listening. 

“With this...I—” and she gestures helplessly behind her, to the notes in her cramped writing on the Allory case, “—I’m not naïve. I’m a police officer, I should know. And yet…”

“Evil is still in this world. Kind of a hard pill to swallow for a city plagued by the personification of that for so long, I would suppose,” He murmurs, soft and low and deadly. Lauren worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

“‘ _I_ _am a firm believer in the presence of evil,’”_ she quoted solemnly. 

There is silence for a few moments, where the blossoms blow back into their minds again. Then:

“I had a talk with someone today. Do you remember Ms. Darnley, from the capital? The one who designed my dress for the inauguration?”

“Ah, that golden behemoth of tulle,” he says, and that earns him a slap on the arm. “Yes, I do. She’s here?”

“Ah, you’re not the only one who’s surprised at that.” She points a vague finger outside, towards the room occupied by the only man not enamored with Aria Challenger. “The husband. They know each other.”

“Do they now?”

“Both didn’t know they were here.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Childhood friends, apparently.”

“I see.” and his lips twitch into a grin, one of a forlorn devil, bereft of his sinners.

They stay like that, two people sharing information like the clouds shed their tears. Their hands on the desk stay intertwined, fingers laced like a lock and key, papers detailing the nature of a gruesome killing forgotten. 

———

Aria entered their shared room with a slightly swollen lip and tousled hair. Kenneth knows, knows too well.

“Hello, dear. Water alright?”

She barely glances at him. “Sufficient.”

Kenneth finds himself again at that cliff that he had been skirting for the past four years, the gaping lacuna where he cannot find anything more to say. So he tactfully refrains, instead choosing to fiddle with a vase of hyacinths, purple and yellow, by the vanity. He can see the vague turn of her head in the mirror, the pout of the lip, the defiant turn of the hip. Then, he crosses the impasse, and finds the words stuck to his tongue.

“Aria...darling, listen.”

She does not acknowledge him, but he goes on anyway:

“You have to stop.”

She still does not say anything.

“That poor boy. No, _that poor girl,_ Aria.”

Nothing, only a jutting of the lip to apply more red lipstick. 

“Why do you do these things?”

She replies this time, but continues to pat at her cherry-stained lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.”

Finally she looks back at him, and her eyes are as grey and cold as steel, meeting feeble green in a taunt, a jab like a silver dagger. “Ken. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He just stares at her, hands tight on the vanity rail. The mirror does not reflect the storm in his eyes, the silent wavering. 

“You’re not—”

“No.” And she gets up from her chair and strides over to him, taking his jaw in her thin hands, varnished nails digging softly into his skin. “Why would I do that to you, darling?”

He considers her for a moment. Eyes that once had him clutching at her with love and affection now are cold and calculating. Then, he pushes her off of him with a force not quite strong enough to hurt, but one to sting. 

“Because I know that the chase is what you want.” He does not sneer, but it is there. The wind comes in from the open balcony window, blowing purple and yellow petals off of the hyacinths, a lesson in color theory as they swirl off their stems. 

“You are _bored,_ Aria. That is all.”

She looks at him in contempt for a good moment, her pretty face screwing up at the temples into one of silent rage. Then, she takes up her hat and sets it daintily on her little head, sets her shoulders, and without another word, flounces out of the hotel, the silk of her white dress swishing as the door slams shut.

He is left with nothing in the hotel that has everything. The vase on the table is not broken, but it feels like shards of glass in his palms all the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back on my shit, lovely readers <3
> 
> \- I feel really bad about making Aria...kinda one-dimensional? If it were me I’d love to make her more complex and with deep emotional trauma ™ that is the basis for her actions but you’ll see why I don’t soon ;). I’m also following the original book to a T in some areas so that’s partly why (although I wish I could say more of 1920’s-1940’s writing of female characters, hmph).
> 
> \- I’m not gonna give you a warning about what to watch out for but,, don’t miss anything I drop in here, it juuust may come up later (wink wink)
> 
> \- The Mature rating is purely for the blood and gore that’s to come. I don’t plan on pushing it any farther than that, but will you get subtle hints of sexy time? Mayhaps, thirst gods.
> 
> \- Holly branches: defense/domestic happiness (but in this case it’s the former). Forget-me-nots: true love/memories (but in this case it’s the latter). Yellow hyacinths: jealousy. We all know the circus with the purple ones ;)
> 
> \- My fav parts are honestly writing the domestic bits. Like Kieran coming home covered in paint? Happy? Hell yeah.
> 
> Much love, as always. Kudos/comments are strawberry croissants <3  
> \- thumbipeach


	5. Upon a Dying Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This isn’t working, is it.”

Rosa remembered a time nearly fifteen years ago, when she and Kenneth Challenger had held up their palms in her mother’s back garden, amongst the squashes and burgeoning pumpkin blossoms, and compared the width and breadth of their fingers. She was fourteen, he eighteen, about to move off to the capital for the military enlistments.

They had lived in a small town to the West of the capital, and there were very few children her age in her neighborhood. Kenneth himself was nearly over four years her senior, and for the first few years he never bothered with her very much, content to play with the group of older boys that would prowl the town and wreac occasional havoc. But he was the only one of them who did not make fun of her stutter, or pick apart the fabric on the dresses she’d hand-sewn for her dolls. Instead, his quiet green eyes that were usually dull with indifference would light up the slightest bit with interest when she showed him how to cross-stitch, and thread her needle with her thimble on her fingers. And she found that she liked when that happened, found that she’d purposefully try and make it spark from within whenever they talked. 

His eyes still did that, when she came to see him that afternoon. They hadn’t seen each other properly for nearly twelve years, and yet it was still there, that little semblance of the boy he’d been inside the intense and life-worn emerald gaze. She found she still liked it even now, thrust years into a future she’d lived her whole life uncertain of. 

They were out on the cliff, a blanket laid under their feet, a basket of strawberries and black currants between them. They were looking out towards the coastline, a soft wind blowing the strands of mouse grey hair back on Kenneth’s face. Rosa glanced over at him and smiled faintly. But she also couldn’t help the small inkling of concern flooding her face. Kenneth looked haggard and rueful, and--dare she even say--old. Too old, for just thirty-three. Worn and defeated, like he had been fighting a battle he knew he would never win, and the scars were accumulating upon his back. 

“Ken?”

He turned to her and regarded the vague anxiety on her face. “Rosa?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” he replied mechanically, and looked out to sea once again. “Why wouldn’t I be, old thing?”

Rosa sighed impatiently. “Well, you certainly haven’t changed much, Ken.”

“And what would that mean exactly?”

“I _mean,_ that you never really say what you’re thinking.” She turned to him fully and graced him with a stare tinged with a hint of coldness. “You’re a pretty decent liar, at least, to someone who wouldn’t know you.”

He chuckled and lifted a black currant to his lips. “You haven’t changed much either, Ro.”

She stopped. “ _And what is_ that _supposed to mean?”_

He laughed, and it was the warm laugh of her childhood, the one she remembered along with the wisps of pumpkins and barely-there squash plants. “You’re as icy as ever. And ruthless still, I can see that.” 

He shifted back on his hands, tilting his face to let the salt-tinged air hit his exposed face. Throwing her a sideways glance, he said, “Do you remember that time, when we were younger, and those boys from across the street were bullying that old stray dog around?”

Rosa thought for a minute. “Yes, I think so…”

He barked out another rueful chuckle. “Don’t you remember it? I swear I saw steam come out of your ears! You nearly strangled that one boy--what was his name? Hector, something?”

“Hunter, yes, I think I do remember! When he kicked that poor thing I just--” Rosa hid a bashful smile behind her ear. “ _Ah, c’est embarrassant._ I just...perhaps I always had a bit of a temper,” she said, with no discernable hint of actual embarrassment, merely a concealed sense of pride. 

“You remember that other time when you nearly killed _me_ when I stole your knitting needles and pretended they were little swords, do you? Oh my, were you mad, Ro!” He threw back his head and laughed, a broad and stark laugh that was lost in the harsh crashing of the waves below. Rosa drew her knees up to her chest and muttered indignant incoherences into them. Ken looked over at her affectionately. 

“Don’t be too mad, old friend. I merely jest.”

Rosa sighed. “Really, Ken.” She lifted her head and looked at him in all seriousness. “You don’t look just fine to me.”

Ken’s laughter died as easily as the tide, and his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed, attempting to conceal the flash of pain on his face. He was about to pop another black currant into his mouth when Rosa stopped his hand, leaning forward and moving the bowl behind them so he couldn’t reach it.

“You can’t stall with berries.”

He huffed and gave her the currant, which she tossed unceremoniously back into the bowl. “You know I can’t stand those.”

“I do know that.”

Rosa looked at him for a minute, studying his impassive face. Then:

“How’s your wife?”

There it was: that strain, that tension. Ken was a master at hiding his emotions, but he still had his tics. His fingers twitched once, a perfect rhythm of anxiety that he hid with a seemingly rueful smirk and a twist of his wrist. “She’s doing well. I think coming down here has her in high spirits. She’s been to the ocean every day since we got here.”

Rosa didn’t say anything for a few moments, leaving Kenneth to flounder in the unfamiliar silence. 

“Would…” She looked embarrassed, and Kenneth registered surprise, for Rosa was almost never embarrassed, especially not when it came to asking things of people, “...would it be frightfully damaging? If I asked you a rather impertinent question, Ken? Would you hate me for it?”

Kenneth was struck with astonishment for a moment. Then, he laughed. “Ro. I’m sure no question you could ask me would be sufficiently impertinent enough to make me hate you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite. Shoot, Rosa.”

“Ok then--” and she drew herself up, setting her shoulders in the way she did when she wanted to get her way with things, and she usually did, at that--”Why don’t you divorce Aria?”

Kenneth looked at her in shock, then hurt, then apprehension. He looked back out to sea as the carefree smile on his face dimmed. 

“You said--”

“Why would you ask me _that?”_

Rosa sighed. “Ken. Don’t let this get to your head, but I know when you’re avoiding something, because I _know--”_

“We--” and he gestured to the both of them--”Haven’t seen each other for over a decade. What would you know of how my life is going?”

“I know that being married to Aria is not something that a man should take lightly,” she turned to him with belligerence, “especially considering how your last marriage ended up.”

He sucked in a harsh breath. “You knew about--”

“Ken I’m not a _doormat._ I know about,” she bit her lip, brushing small tendrils of hair off of her face, “what goes on in the capital.”

“Ah.” He placed both of his hands back on the blanket and looked up to the afternoon sky, watching the clouds chart their course across the light blue expanse of the ocean above them. “A gossipmonger, are you?”

His eyes shifted so that she was in his peripheral, though his conscience and thoughts were elsewhere from her face. “I…”

“You’re going to tell me that it’s not that simple,” she declared with finality. “And I know it mustn’t be, not really. I understand that it’s difficult, and I can’t just go about telling you to cut it all off like it’s--oh, I don’t know, a yard of fabric you can just snip if you don’t like it. But Ken-- _Ken_. You deserve--”

“It isn’t about what I deserve, Ro.” He suddenly lurched forward and wrapped his gangly legs in his broad arms, like a small boy who needed comfort. “Aria and I are...ok. We--”

“You do know what is going on, yes?”

Ken sighed. “Rosa, I’m not a ‘ _doormat’_ either. Of course I know. I have for some time.”

Rosa looked a bit puzzled. “What do you--?”

“But it doesn’t matter, that’s the thing.”

“You’re just going to let her walk all over you? That _is_ the definition of a doormat, Ken.” Rosa gestured wildly out to the sea, expressing her exasperation. “You have to at least talk to her about it.”

Kenneth sighed. “I’ve tried, I have. Rosa, that’s the thing. It isn’t anything for _her,_ either. I’m her security, yes, I know that. But what she really enjoys is the _thrill_ of it. It’s a game for her, a hobby even.” He frowned. “I do not want to deprive her of her hobbies.”

Rosa sighed. “Ken. I’m going to tell you right now, what you’re doing won’t lead anywhere good for you. You have to start standing up for yourself more. It’s always been like that hasn’t it?” And a bit of a soft smile came upon her face. “You can stand up for other people just fine. You can justify their actions all you want--but the moment it comes to yourself...” She trailed off. Kenneth studied her for a moment, then exhaled a bit too sharply for her liking and waved a hand.

“Let’s get off this topic, hm? How have _you_ been doing, old thing?”

Rosa frowned at the change in subject, but continued anyway. “I’ve been fine. My business is thriving, as you probably know.” She beamed with pride. “I have some high profile clientele, people I never _dreamed_ I’d ever even get the courtesy to be in the same room with! I even designed something for the Aevasther’s once! Oh Ken that was marvelous! The dress, it was so difficult because I really was _trying_ too hard, you see, but it came out so nicely for the ball recently. All blues and purples--”

She cut off, looking rather sheepish at her rambling, but Ken merely flashed her that look that she appreciated more than she’d let on, and leaned back again. “I’m glad that you’ve gotten somewhere, Ro.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you’ve gotten somewhere too.” She did not voice the rest of that opinion, where she felt that she did not particularly want to delve.

_But you’ve gotten yourself into something else, haven’t you, old friend?_

Kenneth was gazing thoughtfully out to sea, a finger worrying his chin and head in his palms. Then:

“That woman that you were speaking with this morning. Do you remember? The one with the red hair. You knew her? Did you make something for her?”

Rosa paused, a bit taken aback. “Yes, I did! Why?”

Kenneth shook his head. “I saw her about the day we got here, her and her husband. Who is she?”

Rosa cocked her head and looked at him rather amusedly. “Her name’s Lauren. Lauren Sinclair-White.” Then, a wolfish grin overtook her features. “You know, Ken, when I suggested moving on I didn’t mean onto a married woman--”

“ _Shut up,_ Ro. It’s not that. But she…” and to Rosa’s surprise, she saw him give an infinitesimal shiver. “...looked a bit strange.”

Rosa laughed. “I think she’s pretty, what on earth are you saying?!”

“That isn’t it, certainly, she’s pretty...but we...well, I saw her. Her eyes--they were--”

“ _Pensive?_ Yes, she gets that a lot.” Rosa laughed and leaned back on the blanket, letting her hair sway in the oncoming breeze. “She’s the Chief of Police back in the capital. Really, I’d have thought you had seen her before!”

Kenneth snapped his fingers in remembrance. “ _That’s_ why I thought she looked rather familiar. Chief of Police, you say? I do remember, I think, about five years ago--”

“Yes, _yes!_ That was her. Chief Sinclair. Her uncle was in her position before her, then she stepped up after the whole Scythe business. I designed her dress for her inauguration, that’s how I knew her. We were just catching up.”

“Ah.” Kenneth hummed. “And her husband?”

“Oh her _husband._ Now there’s a character. Rather easy on the eyes, I would say.” Rosa smirked when Kenneth looked a little amused. “Really, Rosa?”

“Haha! So _there._ _Non, mais ses yeux!_ Like stars!”

“I don’t think I’ve seen him before this. What does he do?”

Rosa deliberated for a second. “His name is Kieran. He’s an art teacher, I think Lauren told me? In the capital.”

“An _art teacher? Him?”_

“Why? You seem surprised.”

“Well…” and he looked rather thoughtful, “...doesn’t seem like it, does he?”

Rosa looked at him questioningly. He said:

“His eyes are too sharp for an art teacher, don’t you think? Too calculating.”

Rosa hummed in reluctant agreement. “Yes…you do have a point. I have thought that before. He doesn’t give off the air of an art teacher.”

Kenneth raised an eyebrow. “Yesterday. He picked me out on the balcony. He looked a bit too aware. Like he could... _see_ me, you understand?”

Rosa nodded. “I think so.” Then, picking up a strawberry, she bit into it and flung the green stem off the cliff rather carelessly. “I think Lauren told me once that he also did police work at some point. It was actually where they met, I think. At work.”

“Hm. Cute. Well, that would explain it. All the same…”

Rosa smirked a little. “Be careful with Lauren, I would warn. She’s not the Chief for nothing. She’ll get into you if you ask for it. And I’m not too sure about her husband, but she’d have married someone who could keep up with her, that is certain.” 

Kenneth smiled. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

A comfortable lull fell over the two of them, where they slipped back into the easy banter they relished in in their younger days. They did not need to compare their hands again; they knew that Kenneth Challenger’s was marred with scars and rough marks from battles long fought, and that Rosa’s dainty fingers were merely nicked with needle marks and thimble callouses. They did not need to voice the swirling tensions they felt back at the chateau; they knew each other too well, even after all these years.

After a bit, Kenneth drew a golden pocket watch out of his trousers and yelped when he saw the time. “My! It’s late.” He rose. “I have to get ready for dinner this evening.”

He looked rather hesitant to part, but Rosa waved a hand and began to fold the blanket into a neat square. 

“I’ll...see you then, Ro?”

She looked up and said that he would. They parted, the sun just beginning to dip below the clouds. Rosa stared at the receding back of her oldest, strongest friend, and wondered what she was going to do now that she knew him to be falling from the grace he once held.

———

Lauren stabbed her scallops with an angry fork and pushed the oregano away from her in distaste. She hated both, and had no idea why she had ordered a dish that featured the two ingredients for dinner.

“You’re making that face, darling.”

Lauren turned to Kieran. “What face?”

Setting down his fork, filled with leaves of lettuce and little bits of meat, he swiped a finger gently on her brow, smoothing out the taut wrinkles. When she glared at him, he pointed and laughed. “ _That_ face.” 

He looked down at her plate. “You ordered scallops. You _hate--”_

“I hate scallops, yes, _I know.”_ She looked bitterly down at the offending vegetables. “I have no idea why on Earth I ordered them, even. Something just came over me and I blurted it out, and now I have to deal with them.” She pierced another one vigorously, putting all the spite she rightly felt towards the cream colored blocks before her. Kieran’s eyebrow rose. 

“You puzzle me, sometimes, officer.”

She rolled her eyes. “You could call me a masochist, I guess.”

“I do give you that title sometimes, don’t I?”

“Shut up.”

Dinner at _La Belle Chose_ was always the right amount of ostentatious to reconcile the high influx of bourgeois patrons and the homely charm of a seaside escape. It was nothing like the capital, with its pretentious displays and grand shows of wealth, but it was close enough that Lauren was grateful she’d decided to throw in the fancy champagne-lace dress she saved for occasions such as this. It was long and form fitting, the stays underneath lacing up rather tightly and the collar high necked, but it still afforded her adequate movement, and she felt quite confident in it, no question. 

_She almost forgot to miss the feeling of a dagger strapped to her thigh, a pistol at her hip, scrapes on her wrists--_

Glancing over at her husband, she took in appreciatively the graceful shrug of his shoulders as he leaned on the table and stared out at the stars through the open french windows in the dining hall. He had on a signature ruffled undershirt and a blue blazer tied snugly in the back, but his collar was undone in his trademark fashion, the buttons popped mercilessly to expose his collarbone, as he always seemed to insist on doing. His hair was up in its usual bun, secured with a soft blue silk ribbon that she’d gifted him. She remembered that ribbon: she’d given it to him the day he’d been released from the Tower. 

He looked content. Happy. She couldn’t help the soft smile that overtook her face when she thought of it, how comfortable it was to simply be alive. She touched her pinky to his under the table, and his eyes shifted to regard her, head never leaving the palm of his hand, which was hiding the small smirk that he wore to complete the familiar ensemble. They twined their fingers together for a fleeting moment, and he squeezed it once in acknowledgment.

_Everything’s as right as rain._

Looking balefully down at her food, she heard him let out a little chuckle at what must have been an amusing expression on her part. 

“You could always get something else--?”

She shook her head. “No. Now I feel I must be committed to the affair, after picking it, even if by mistake.”

“It doesn’t have to work like that??”

“Oh, but it does subordinate.” She clenched her fist and set her face into a mockery of determination. “I must go through with it!”

Kieran deadpanned. “You’re even stranger than Kym sometimes, I’ll say.”

“Don’t talk to me about it, Kieran. I’ll get myself to like this-- _monstrosity--_ even if it kills me.”

Kieran merely throws up his hands in defeat and spears more salad onto his fork. “Whatever your heart desires, _mon coeur.”_

Lauren grimaced as she swallowed down another scallop, this one dotted with little bits of cilantro and summer squash, and looked around the dining hall. She could see the Fairsons on the other side, Mrs. Fairson once again talking her husband’s ears clean off, The Briartons’ proximity to their table also landing them the luxury of listening to the woman excitedly talk about the hat shop she frequented in the proper and how the owner had been caught having an affair with the butcher three doors down and _oh my, the scandal--_

She guessed that was enough to help the scallop go down, at any rate.

She could see Mr. Bessly off in the corner, a simple plate of oatmeal with seasonal strawberries and a glass of water buried amongst piles and piles of manuscripts. In front of him, wearing a plush canary yellow evening gown and looking rather absent, Rosa Darnley sat fiddling with the stem of her wine glass. Twiddling her manicured fingers a bit at Lauren when she noticed her gaze, Lauren returned the wave and smiled a bit. Though she stopped when Mr. Grandier came over and began to try and wheedle the seat out of her, as he apparently felt like she was occupying the seat with the prime view of the cliffside, which Mr. Grandier was most certainly entitled to after such a long day. Lauren could do nothing but mime helplessly at a flustered Rosa, as she visibly resisted the urge to knock her pinot glass onto the politician’s shined boots.

She could feel the dull sensation of a nudge and looked at Kieran to see him staring at the doors leading to the chateau main. The Rethburns had just come in, arm in arm and--looking altogether quite happy. Mr. Rethburn was laughing his hearty, jovial laugh at something his wife had said, and when they saw the Sinclair-Whites they waved, Mrs. Rethburn tugging on her husband’s arm to bring them over to their table. She was wearing a long blue dress that billowed out into stitched flowers right at her ankles, and her blonde hair was swept up into a neat updo, little white pearls dotting her fair head. She looked pretty, and happy. So did her husband, at that. It was a stark dichotomy to the day before, when he had been consumed with the overwhelming fire of a different passion, and her face had been dark with unnamed jealousy. 

“Hello, you two!” Mrs. Rethburn greeted them happily, sitting daintily in the chair opposite them. Mr. Rethburn sat down as well, his hand never leaving his wife’s. Lauren and Kieran shot each other twin glances at this, but refrained from displaying anything other than polite passivity on their faces. When the waiter came by to take their order, Lauren resisted the urge to demand another dish from the poor man. Kieran shook his head as the waiter left, still in disbelief at his wife’s fruitlessly stubborn nature. 

“The weather here is lovely, isn’t it?” Mr. Rethburn said happily, and looked questioningly at the two of them. “Have you been out on the beach yet? Good stuff, that is!”

Lauren let a small smile drift on her face, but still couldn’t allow the pangs of uneasiness at the awkward situation go entirely unnoticed. While Kieran, quick as he was on the uptake, replied that they had, in fact, been down to the beach just that afternoon, and continued to make polite conversation to the couple, Lauren took the time to study them. The way they moved, their mannerisms.

She was surprised to find that they seemed to be...wholly comfortable with one another. Like they were just any regular couple, no drama, no secrets. When Mr. Rethburn, upon Kieran’s prompting, launched into a tale of how he’d nearly been swept out to shore when he was younger, and Mrs. Rethburn followed up with a railing anecdote on how her family’s maid had been the one to teach her how to swim when she herself was a girl and had nearly gotten her drowned in their large pool, Lauren took note the look Mr. Rethburn had on his face when his wife was talking. His eyes softened, and he looked almost boyish as a loving smile graced his face when Mrs. Rethburn began to gesture animatedly as she talked. 

She was struck with an acute realization: _He really does love her._

“...and that was that! Until I met Pat I hadn’t really swam very often after the whole ordeal! But--” and she looked over playfully at her husband, who smiled, “--he dragged me into it again!”

“Quite right, darling, I did! And you’re a fine swimmer, you needn’t worry.”

While they were caught up in their conversation, Lauren took the opportunity to lean in and whisper discreetly in Kieran’s ear. 

“ _You said--”_

_“Yes, I know, but--”_

_“Were you sure? Of what you heard? Because it doesn’t seem--”_

Kieran shook his head infinitesimally. _“I know. It doesn’t seem that way at all. But--”_

Lauren sighed and turned to Mr. Rethburn. “Were you outside on the beach today, Mr. Rethburn? This afternoon.”

He looked a bit taken aback, then a curious expression overtook his face, like he’d been suddenly splashed with ice water. “Ah... **yes, I was out there for a bit.”**

Lauren exhaled subtly and stole a glance at Kieran, who understood immediately. He looked sympathetically at Mrs. Rethburn. Her face, too, had changed almost like a curtain, the former light in her eyes snuffed out like the wick of a spent candle. 

“Was the water good, then? Kieran and I so did want to go, but I had some things to finish up this afternoon, and we didn’t get the opportunity.”

“ **Yes...the water was alright. Lovely as the weather.”** Color was rising in Patrick Rethburn’s face, an unbecoming thing marring his handsome features. 

Lauren twiddled her fork in between her fingers. Gritting her teeth clandestinely, she merely hummed noncommittally in response and struck a scallop with the tines as a distraction to witnessing the unease spreading slowly over the opposite woman.

She could feel Kieran nudge her again, this time with a subtle press of the leg under the table, and when she turned to look she found she was presented with two more dramatically set figures entering the dining hall.

Aria Challenger was hanging off of her husband’s arm like the sparkling diamonds on her ears. Her light green chiffon skirt billowed out into a rainbow of colors that danced along her body as she swayed into the hall, lips pursed and long eyelashes kissing her rouged cheeks. Once again, her presence acted like a pair of dainty yet skillful fingers snuffing out a lit match. The world seemed to dim in its color when faced with a character such as Aria Challenger, her suffocating beauty permeating the room like a cloying perfume. Immediately, the love in Mr. Rethburn’s eyes was replaced almost comically with utter infatuation. No, it certainly wasn’t love, but it blotted out any prior genuine emotion in his face, replaced as if he had suddenly gone blind.

Mrs. Challenger spared her supposed lover no special glance, merely fitted herself tighter yet to her husband as he pulled her forward (or rather, she seemed to pull him) towards the chairs on the outside balcony. While she could see Kieran out of the corner of her eye watching the couple at their table intently for their reactions, Lauren couldn’t help but once again study the Admiral. The seemingly blank expression and easy gait was held with--definitely, yes, there was something--a studied, calculated façade of poise. On the inside, underneath, she could feel the wariness, the steps syrupy and slow as if he were sinking with every movement. His eyes were blank, expressionless. She suddenly found why the feeling she got when looking at them was weighing on her--they were a mirror of Kieran’s, when he sank into the despair that claimed him from time to time, when the burden of a life bludgeoned several times over with pain became overwhelming.

She could see Rosa across the room, her attention diverted to her old friend. Lauren did not miss the palpitating anxiety on her pretty face when she saw the two walk by. It surprised her a bit, for Rosa was always pretty good at masking her true feelings. But here she was an open book, emotions flitting across her face like the multitude of parchments in Admiral Challenger’s signature leather-bound book, blowing harshly in the wind. 

Kenneth spared Rosa a small smile, the tense face relaxed for just a moment, and then as suddenly as it came on it went away, gone with his back as he exited the main dining hall with his wife to be out on the balcony. 

Mrs. Rethburn’s tacit and taut voice snapped her out of her reverie. 

“Pat. I’m-- **I’m suddenly very tired.** Is it quite alright if we take our dinner in our room?”

Patrick Rethburn shook his head as if to clear the fog that had just come over him. “Of course darling…’course. You feeling alright? It’s not--”

“ _No. Pat._ **I’m fine.** Let’s just go. I’ll order the food brought up.” She was already picking up her things, hiking up the sky blue tulle and making her way unceremoniously out, leaving her husband to push in his chair with muffled apologies to the Sinclair-Whites and hurry out on the trails of his wife. 

There was a tense silence over the scene in the dining hall. All characters present seemed subdued once more, like the curtains over a set in a play. Except for Lauren and Kieran. They were exchanging discrete glances, whispering softly in each other's ears, as was their wont. 

Lauren grimaced as she leaned into her husband, clutching his hand with a hushed voice. "This business…"

Kieran nodded slightly. "Yes, it's unpleasant. Much more for them, I'm sure, but to have to watch it is another kind of discomfort." He clenched his jaw, his calm eyes swirling with sadness and a hint of anger. 

"All I can muster up is...well, _pity._ And I don't like feeling pity." Lauren rested her chin on her hand sadly. Kieran hummed in assent.

"Pity is an ugly thing. I don’t think anybody wants to feel it, but it’s there anyway."

Lauren stole a sideways glance at him. "Do you think we should _do_ something? I don't think I could stand it if we just sat back and _watched."_

Kieran sighed woefully. "I don't think there's anything we _can_ do, darling. What would it be? We can't stop Patrick Rethburn from running his course, and we can't stop Mrs. Challenger from doing what she is doing. Because she certainly knows, she _must.”_

Lauren nodded sadly. “The people who are to blame cannot be changed, I suppose that is what you’re trying to say.”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“I feel the worst for the Admiral. He looks to be a rather intelligent man. He can’t be blind to all of this.”

Kieran sighed again, picking at the leaves of salad and the trails of dressing still left on his plate. “It’s a wonder to me how he seems so impassive at the whole ordeal.”

Lauren said nothing. She found that a little part of her understood it--the need to remain forcefully ignorant in the face of humiliation. The need to silently bear it all, for some unknown purpose, driven by an incomprehensible sense of pride and the lingering vestiges of dignity. Yes, she supposed she knew what forced the Admiral to remain silent and what even compelled Mrs. Rethburn to refrain from making a public scene: vanity. The driving force of all beings, at some point in time. 

Looking down at her scallops again, the squares laying challengingly, tauntingly complacent on the white china, she pushed the offending plate away from her with the finality of one who has weathered an indecisive war. 

“I’m going to order a cheesecake and a glass of wine, and you are not going to say a single thing about it.”

“Glad you saw sense, _mon amour.”_

_———_

They ordered up a bowl of soup and a platter of steak. Mrs. Rethburn sat out on one of the wicker chairs on the balcony, still in her dinner attire. She could hear the clanging of glasses and the rancorous laughter coming from the dining hall down below, and yet her eyes were still resolutely set on the harbor, to the dark shadow of the Fae’s Cove beyond the shoreline, where her husband had swam out to and waved to her, all smiles and winning clarity. It seemed like eons ago, now. 

She could hear the object of her stormy countenance come up behind her gently, snaking an arm around her shoulders. She did not make any overt move to shake him off, but she did not turn back either, continuing to stare blankly out to sea. 

“It is beautiful, right darling?” Patrick asked, his voice infuriatingly happy and normal. She still did not turn. 

“I’m glad we came out here.”

_That_ gets her. She doesn’t snap at him, though the intent is certainly heavy in the air. Instead, her voice is calm. “Yes, I’m sure you are. It _was_ your idea after all.”

“I’m sorry that I was so insistent. But you know--”

“Why _did_ you want to come here so badly?” She rounds on him, her blond hair escaping from her updo and tumbling around her delicate shoulders, pearls pooling at their feet. “I wanted to go to my mother’s in Greenwich, you _knew_ why, you knew, you did--but you _insisted--”_

“Darling, I’m--”

“ _No,_ Pat.” She is heaving with the exertion of a scorned woman, her eyes firey with questions. “I’m the one talking now. This is--do you have any idea what I’m going through here--!?”

“Tina,” and Patrick comes and rests his broad hands on her arms, supposed to be comforting, soothing her, but it only amplifies the wretched look in her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Patrick I may be a lot of things but I am not _dumb._ I am not _blind. I--”_

“Darling, I would never hurt you. I love you, you know that—you know that, don’t you?”

She didn’t say anything for a while. Then:

“This isn’t working, is it.”

It’s not a question. Patrick balks. 

“I don’t--”

“Should we still go through with this? This pretending? I don’t know if I can take it if you are going to make it like this,” and it is bitter, cold.

Patrick sighs and presses her close to him. She remembers a time when he did this, on their honeymoon, all sugar and blistering love. It’s been a year, and yet it still manages to evoke the same feeling. Nothing has changed.

“I’ll try. I’m going to try.”

She buries her face into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of the sea outside.

“Ok. I believe you.”

He smiles and with a chaste kiss to her lips, barely smearing the lipstick on them, he goes outside their room to get the platters of food.

Tina Rethburn unzips her dress part of the way, the cloth hanging loosely off of her thin frame. Then, striding over to the dressing table, she snuffs out the lit candle with rough and calloused fingers. The light splutters in her touch, then dies like a tidal wave, with typical and routine fanfare. It is dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long, my darling readers! 
> 
> \- This is the last chapter of ‘filler’ before it gets to the main meat. Get hyped ;)
> 
> \- Lauren’s views on scallops do not reflect the author’s. I must confess in all honesty, that I’ve never actually had scallops before. I think they look very tasty, although I have a nagging feeling they’re one of those foods that look very appealing and then fall flat. To those who have eaten them: tell me about it! I’d like to know. 
> 
> \- Very light on Lauki goodness in this chapter, and for that I apologize. The following chapters I can promise will have more.
> 
> \- Thank you all so much for sticking with me as I write this!! It’s a bit out there in terms of concept/topic compared to most of the PH fics on this site, so I hope I’m not depriving you of anything with the change in genre :’)
> 
> As always, kudos/comments are strawberries <3 Love you all lots
> 
> -thumbipeach


	6. Saltwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Something’s off. I can feel it.”

For most of her life, Lauren would be plagued with a phantom tune of her own. 

This is how it would go: 

She’d wake in the night, dress clinging to her skin with feverish sweat, her heart racing furiously. Then, on an instinct cultivated by long years of raw emotion, of blinding guilt and sheer muscle memory, her legs would swing over the edge of her bed and make their way mechanically over to the wall where, behind an unassuming sheer white curtain, she’d find a board marked furiously with her hate. 

_The first time she wakes in the night like this after the dissolving of the Phantom Scythe, she once again throws the covers off of her trembling figure, legs taut with residue adrenaline and breaths heaving out in short gasps, to make her way towards the board, the red tape and pictures of rubble, immortalized in brutal black and white._

_And then she stops, for she realizes that the wall isn’t there anymore._

_Instead, she finds herself in her old childhood home, except it has been made new, lived in by entities she can only dully recall to mind. Where once stood a board covered in draperies and loathing in her uncle’s manor, now was a bookshelf with trinkets reminding her of her current life. Her medals and awards. Rows and rows of books, some Kieran’s and some her own, ones she’s bought over the years when she was alone. Kieran’s degree, framed in little gold leaves on the mantle. A watercolor painting he once did of the bridge where they had bled from their hands and joined for the first time. A smashed bullet from her gun, hung up tauntingly on the wall, a little joke between them._

_No board. No red yarn connecting the tangled dots. No Dylan._

_‘Not anymore,’ her mind supplies without her bidding._

_She digs her fingers so hard into her palms she almost cuts into them, little divots nearly splitting open to spill out onto the carpet. She attempts to calm her breathing, like a cornered dog trying to remain silent, the horrible, horrible feeling of adrenaline and anxiety still crawling up from her feet like vines up an archway. She itches for a pistol, to curl her finger comfortingly around a silver trigger and shoot until she cannot hear the whine of fear and unease anymore._

_Looking back towards the bed, she notes the absence of her husband. Plagued with bouts of insomnia as they were, it was not uncommon for one of them to stay up late into the night, waking invariably even after they’d both succumbed to sleep._

_Walking back to the bed, ignoring the rumpled sheets and pillow soaked to damp, she feels around on the other side, searching for something. She finds it almost immediately._

_She twirls the daisy stem in her fingers, admiring the delicate furl of the petals. He’d leave one for her when he’d be absent from the bed, to let her know that he was still there, if not in front of her then somewhere where she can reach, always. She knew he’d often stay up grading papers, scrutinizing his students’ work, even sometimes retreating to the studio himself and covering his hands in scrapes of oils and acrylics. So, tucking the daisy in her hair and pulling a shawl strewn on the settee over her shoulders, she makes her way silently down the hall of their home to his office. As suspected, the light in his study is on, the dim light from the bulb streaming through the open doorway. She knocks their tune on the door and enters, the creaking sound of the door deafening in the serene silence of midnight._

_He looks up from where he’s made himself busy at the desk in the center of the room, first in shock and then in mild alarm at seeing her here, looking as haggard as she must be. He sets down the paper he’s been marking._

_“Lauren--what--”_

_“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, with a calm that she does not feel. He understands immediately, detecting the haunted note in her voice. Thinning his lips, he pushes back from his desk slightly and holds out one arm. An invitation._

_She strides over to him and he folds her in his arms, a hand coming up to clutch her to him as she nestles in his lap. He smells his familiar, grounding scent of poppies and paint, and she burrows further into his firm chest, seeking an antidote from the poison still rotting her brain out with denial and the remaining pangs of fear. Resting his chin on her head, he picks his pen back up and continues where he left off, scribbling notes underneath a haphazard still-life painting of pears and peaches. They don’t say anything; if she shuffles in restlessness, he merely holds her tighter and hums softly in her ear. She does not fall asleep, but her demons are at bay, placated by their master, the one who holds her like he is her guardian angel. They remain that way until dawn, when he plants a soft kiss on her head to mark the morning, and they know they both must get ready for work._

_This is not the last time this occurs. Eventually, it becomes almost routine, where she would wander into the study after being plagued by anxiety and nerves for nearly half the night, and they would merely sit in the same room, content in each other’s presence. She’d bury herself in a book in the corner, poring over whatever they’d happen to have in their library--silly fairy tales of princes and dragons, dramas of hapless people clad in smoke and cigarettes, even Kieran’s books on plein aire and how to maneuver through a mistake on a canvas, things she has no interest in, if only to bury the mess of her mind; he’d do paperwork and make small sketches in his notebook, and that would be how they pass the night, no sleep to be seen and yet happiness abound._

When she jolts awake this time, she finds that once again, her instincts are thwarted. She’s not in their bedroom, which has long since become her shelter; she is in a hotel room, the open balcony in the fateful spot she will always turn to, letting in the night air, tinged with the scent of the sea and the sharp, pointed zing of salt. 

She feels around on the other side of the bed, and finds the daisy almost immediately, to which he has tied a small piece of parchment, scribed with his scrawling hand.

_Gone down to the shore._

_-K._

Lauren sighs, then hikes up her nightgown and grabs her red shawl from the depths of her suitcase, threading a hand through her sleep-mussed hair to sort through the intermittent tangles. Shutting the hotel door softly so as not to disturb the sleeping guests, she treads down the hallway. She passes the bouquet of hyacinths in the lobby and only stops briefly, noting eleven in their place. Then, setting her shoulders and tossing her head with her signature bull-terrier shake, she opens the door and delves into the night.

She almost expects it to be cold as a frigid Ardhalis winter, but once again her memory betrays her. She’s near the sea, now, and the heat the waves capture bear down on her and blanket her in a soft haze of warmth. She continues to trek, past the archways and doors, past the embankment where she’d sat what seemed now to be several lifetimes ago, eating and chatting. Past all of that, down to the seashore. 

She’s just about to climb the rocks that separate the majority of the paved pathway to the pier and the rough terrain of the shore when she hears it, a sound she regrets knowing by heart:

The hush of a delicate sob, broken by the sound of hurt and scorn, of bubbling emotion as raw as the babbling brook of a river. 

It comes from the cluster of rocks to her right, and pausing for just a moment, she makes her way off the pathway and towards the wretched noise.

Who Lauren expected to find, she does. Tina Rethburn sits like an abandoned child, like a lonely, lost siren, beckoning for those who would spare her a glance. She’s forgone her blue dress that made her look like a fairy of the cove named for it, and instead wears a simple, plain white gown, reminiscent of Lauren’s own. 

“Mrs. Rethburn?”

She startles, caught unawares, clutching at the rock in an instinctive flight response. She is tense for a few heartbeats, before softening infinitesimally at who she registers before her. Her arms do not lose their tension though, the muscle still taut with apprehension. 

_“You.”_

Lauren grimaced, not one to usually intrude on a private affair. But there was something about this, this abject display of grief from a waif of a woman, that moved her to stay and press a little bit longer, see how far she can dig into the wound of another. 

_How morbid, my good cop._

_I haven’t been a good cop for a while, my love._

_Isn’t that so?_

“Are you o-- _oh, dieu,_ you’re not _really_ ok, are you?” She skips the pleasantries, going straight to the point, not allowing Mrs. Rethburn to voice any falsity. Somehow in the script of this little play of dissonance they act in she feels Mrs. Rethburn would appreciate it. She does, in fact--she nods a little.

**“I’ll be alright,** I think. **Please don’t worry about me.”**

Lauren smiles a little, sadly. “Now, now, Mrs. Rethburn--”

_“Tina._ Please. You’re seeing snot come out of my nose, you might as well.” She laughs a watery laugh as another sob escapes her throat. Lauren wavers for a moment, then climbs over the myriad rocks and pebbles to sit beside her on the cold stone. 

“Well, _Tina._ I know that isn’t true.”

She sniffs plaintively and stares blankly out to the dark, imposing rocks on the coastline.

They say nothing for what feels like eons, snared in uncomfortable gaps of discomfort, of not knowing what to interject at all. Then:

“When my husband and I met…”

She turns and listens to her woes as they threaten to come spilling out of her, a dam of emotion sliced through with the sharp blade of helplessness.

“I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, this kind of story. _We were inseparable.”_ She brings her hands up to her face to wipe away the tears, and Lauren notes that they are rather imposing hands, with callouses upon the wrists and fingertips. 

“I--he and I were happy. We--we used to under _stand_ each other, you know? I mean--it’s not like we didn’t fight. Petty things, all of it, of course. We’ve only been married for a year.” She smiles sardonically, almost coldly, then gestures out to the harsh waves beating down on the coastline, a vaguely hysterical expression of her situation. “But _this--”_

“Tina.” Lauren interrupts the barrage of self-pity and looks Mrs. Rethburn square in the eye. “You have to talk to him. Talk to your husband. _Really_ talk to him. Put your foot down. That’s the only way.”

“No, no, you cannot _understand-- Pat isn’t--”_

She grits her teeth and looks down at her palms, salty tears falling artistically onto them like drops of morning dew. 

“Pat isn’t a bad man.”

Lauren holds back from screaming. 

“It’s that _woman. That--that--”_

She clenches her fists, face contorting. Lauren lays a hand softly on her wrist, an attempt to quell the oncoming storm.

“You and I both know that that isn’t the real cause of it.”

Mrs. Rethburn rounds on her, fire in her soft, intelligent, hawk-like eyes. _“Are you insinuating--”_

_“Non. Je suis désolée._ But, I have to point out that you aren’t doing yourself any favors by being silent. It certainly isn’t your fault--and she isn’t entirely blameless, I have to agree on that, it’s irrefusable-- but you _do_ know the root of the problem,” Lauren turns away, making a study of the blanket of dark in the cloudless night sky, “and you won’t acknowledge it.”

Tina fumes, palms pressing into the rock so hard as to create imprints. Then, she gives up her wrath and sighs, a great heaving thing, and droops like a wilted iris. 

“I think I do know. But I can’t--I cannot find it in myself to say it.”

“I know.”

_“Do you really?!?”_ Anger once more, flaring like a tigress. She’s a little scary like this--not enough to unnerve Lauren, no, but still enough of note. Her eyes are wild and blazing, her shoulders clenched in the spirit of the fight. Mrs. Rethburn was the type of woman to lean into her anger, press into it to see how far it could go without killing her.

Like Lauren herself. 

The thought unsettled her, and she turned away with a quick admission that no, she didn’t really know, before the other woman could see the anxious expression on her face. 

Silence once again fell over the two of them. Then, out of nowhere:

“I’m envious of you, you know.”

_That_ startles her a little. Lauren turns to her, bemusement replacing tension, and Mrs. Rethburn smiles ruefully, almost gently, a sardonic, unfaithful little smirk on her soft lips once again. “I’m sure half of the chateau is, really.”

_“Me? Why--?”_

She barks out a harsh laugh. _“Because._ You and that husband of yours--” and she waves her arm vaguely towards Lauren-- “are so... _close. Dammit,_ I don’t have the right words. But you know, you _must.”_ She looks like she’s resisting the urge to spit, but refrains out of politeness, or because she likes Lauren, deep down, underneath her mask of hatred for another man. Lauren cannot tell; she has not lied to her yet.

She can’t help the little smile that graces her face. It is the first one of the night, and she finds herself a bit embarrassed that the mere though of Kieran is all it takes to brighten her spirits, however small. 

“Well...me and him have been through a lot together. We know how to talk to each other.” She looks pointedly at the other woman, who shakes her head, laughing without sincerity.

“God, The way you two walk around--that way you _look_ at each other, like I said that day--it’s the exact opposite of whatever the hell everyone else can see going on. I’m so jealous--” she heaves an insincere laugh, though what she says is the truth, “--of that. How do you do it? Being so easy with each other. _How_ does it--?” She breaks off, all supposed mirth gone from her face suddenly.

“And you know what I absolutely _hate? Loathe?”_

Her eyes are stormy, cloudy with emotion, “— _Pity._ That’s all anyone here can think when they deign to look at me. _‘Oh, the poor, poor wife.’ God! That’s all they see!”_ She whirls once again on Lauren. “And here you are, up on your mighty high god _damn_ horse, thinking the _exact_ same thing. Oh don’t _deny_ it, you fool.” She shakes a finger in her face. “Don’t try to tell me otherwise!”

Lauren sighs and holds out a placating arm. It’s a familiar gesture--one she has done before when questioning emotional witnesses in the bare, single-window room she once made her home. It still is ineffective, as it always is, to quell the oncoming storm of human despair.

“Tina. I’m not able to tell you anything otherwise. You _have_ to talk to your husband.”

She looks at her balefully, with abject scorn. “It’s so easy for you to say that--because you don’t _know.”_

“I _do_ know that relationships—any, no matter the kind—are built on communication. You asked how me and Kieran do it. _That’s_ how.” Lauren rises gracefully, her skirts furling around her in the soft wind. She turns to Tina Rethburn with a soft finality, her golden eyes sad with that hated thing--that pity that she cannot help.

“Where is your husband now?” She asks.

Mrs. Rethburn hesitates. **“He’s...inside. Our room.”**

Lauren sighs and raises an eyebrow. “Where is he really, my good woman?”

Tina gives her a look of first apprehension, then something that Lauren cannot find it in her to place, a mixture of confusion and disdain, then:

“You pity me too much.”

Lauren sighs again and draws her shawl tighter around her.

“That I do, I’m afraid.”

Tapping once, twice on her wrist in a subtle form of farewell, she turns and begins to make her way down the path once again, climbing gracefully over rocks as she once had over streets and rooftops. 

“Good night, Mrs. Rethburn. Sleep it off, then come find me in the morning and I’ll see what else I can do for you.”

As she turns to go, she could swear she could feel words of scorn branded on her back, silent marks of the hapless, wilting thing behind her.

She continues her trek down to the shore, where her own husband awaits her. 

———

The sea is frightfully calm.

It splashes without discrimination, covering every inch of the coastline in the soft, downy foam of the tide. Kieran fixes his gaze out to where the sun would lay if it were daytime, and lets his mind haze over, wander, disconnect, the only sound in his head being the steady heartbeat of the water.

The air is threaded with the scent of salt. He supposes it’s only fair—it’s the ocean, after all—but if all he can smell is the sharp scent of the ocean he selfishly hopes it can drown out the other bitter odor he is familiar, all too friendly with.

Gritting his teeth, he shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to not go down that path. He’s here now--that shouldn’t be for naught.

Something twitches at the back of his mind; a presence that remains unseen yet. Instinctively, he turns at the intrusion, and comes face to face with someone he was not expecting to see.

Aria Challenger.

They lock eyes on the shore, and for a moment, he is sure they are both grasping thinly for words to say. Perhaps there is still something a little intimidating about him, his poise and demeanor still caught in the familiar tics of his past, because he can swear that the confident set to her stance was momentarily caught unawares.

“You.” His voice betrays nothing. 

“Mr. Sinclair-White.” She walked up to him, heels sinking in the sand but not managing to deter her decisive movements. She stops next to him and extends a hand in invitation, palm down. It was a deceptively delicate hand, fingers long and dainty, but nails perfectly cut, sharp things that glinted with varnish.

Subverting what must have been her expectation, he took the proffered limb with polite indifference and shook it well, then released it and looked back out to the water. He does not catch the thwarted look on her face, like a dog that had been soaked with ocean spray. Tucking a piece of bright red hair behind her ear, she spoke charmingly once more.

“I’m quite surprised to see you out here, though it is rather delightful, I’m sure. I’m afraid we haven’t gotten the chance to... talk much. Though I’ve seen you about.” 

Her voice recalled Kieran to the archway where he’d hidden, and she’d turned this voice on a different, more susceptible man. He does not take the bait, for he is not a mere fish to the worm she dangles.

“Well, yes. I suppose there is a reason for that, then.” He still does not look her in the eye when he says this, staring out to the cove beyond the rocks, letting the wind whip his hair out of its bun to lay across his sharp face, jaw clenched ever so slightly.

“Ah. I see. You don't exactly find me very favorable...do you, dear?” The cloying voice, the strong, too strong scent of her perfume washed over him rather uncomfortably, orchids and honey clogging his nose. But he’d weathered worse things, and so instead he leveled her with his gaze, finally, unwavering and steady. 

He studied her features. Her face gave off the impression of soft vulnerability, but underneath there was something a bit too sharp, a bit too jarring. He found that there was something almost ugly, underneath the mirage of beauty. 

He supposed that was what happened when you looked too hard at a woman like Aria Challenger. 

“Not too terribly, Madame.” Kieran smiled to himself, and she took that as an invitation. The moonlight cast over her face, highlighting the angles and curves of her figure in light blue velvet. It reminded him very suddenly of a different time, by a different body of water. 

A bridge, red hair, more muted than this but still poignant and refined, a contrast against the deep blue of midnight. Yellow eyes, a gun, a deal made with blood; all flashed in his mind before he came to and registered green eyes instead of yellow, soft, tight green silk instead of a burnished, refined coat, and hair too saturated with crimson to be the one he knows well, adores to distraction.

“It’s your wife, isn’t it?” she asks, and her voice is a little hard, yet still sultry and seductive. Kieran resists the urge to chuckle out loud, and instead hides a smile behind a hand through his hair. 

“What does my wife have to do with this, Madame?”

She sidles up to him and presses her side to his. He does not shake her off completely, but the feeling of her touch has him reaching for a phantom blade once more, instinctively placing a bracing foot between her legs and his. He stiffens and she notices.

“You are….cold to me.”

He turns to her and regards her in the moonlight. He again wonders, like so many other women would have, what the appeal was. Underneath the makeup and fox-like eyes there seemed to be nothing. Vapidity, stupidity, a vacuous blank space. 

Aria Challenger was, he realized, a rather silly woman. 

“Do I have a reason to be necessarily warm to you, Mrs. Challenger?”

It’s the first time he’s addressed her by her husband’s name, and he can see how it doesn’t seem to have any affect on her.

_She doesn’t care, the little devil._

_But he is one too, and so he too does not give her his time._

“I don’t know...I was hoping that, as we’re staying in the same hotel, we could be friends?” She makes an attempt to smile winningly up at him, emerald green eyes shining with a farce of warmth. He can only remember a day long ago, when he and Lauren danced to a tune as seductive as this, except they were equals, on opposite sides and yet twined so closely as to be the same. 

“If you and your husband would like to meet up for tea sometime with us, that can be arranged.” He is disarming, distant. Her face sours, lip curling. 

“You and your wife...people talk just as much about you two, you _do know that?”_

That stops him. He turns to her head on, body twisting with a creeping feeling of apprehension. “Do they now?”

“Oh _yes._ Aren’t you two just the most lovely of couples.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Your wife is quite beautiful--”

“Why _thank_ you, I’ll pass on the message--”

“--but I don’t see why you’re so loyal to her.” She smirks up at his blank face, a construction of poise and impassivity, expecting that to get to him. He does not show her anything, does not give her his deck of cards in surrender. As with so many others, he holds his hand close to his chest and does not let go, even in the violent storm of his brain. 

There are few and far between he shares that with. 

“Well…” and he turns back out to the crushing waves, “--you may not understand. But Lauren and I…” and then once again turns to look her in the eyes, his once hard and cold stance now strangely vulnerable, allowing himself a little bit of genuinity before he reverts back to his guarded state, “...we’ve been through a lot together.”

Hadn’t they really. 

“And, quite frankly, Mrs. Challenger--” he leaned forward, a mockery of deference, “--I wouldn’t trade her for a hundred of you. That’s the difference between you and me.” He matches her smile, this one satirical of her attempted pass on him.   
  


“I understand the value of experience.”

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then:

“You, I think, are a fool.”

He returns the silence for a heartbeat, then laughs, a wholehearted grumble straight from his core. He throws his head back, handsome features contorted in amusement, a dance of stars in his eyes which matched perfectly the hue of the moon. “ _Thank_ you! I rather think I am, that!”

She curls her lip in a little sneer, showing nothing and beholden to nobody once again. Then, she adjusts the strap of her chemise and levels him with another adoring gaze, almost like flipping a light switch. He is startled by the contrast in her features, the quick change of her outward display. He wonders dully, hazily, if she is an actress, if she flirts around on stage, donning mask after mask, back wherever she came from the way she does here, with him now.

“Would it be impertinent of me to ask you a little favor of you, _Monsieur?”_

That stops him. “Depends. What is it you want from me?”

Her demeanor reverts back to one of her usual assurety, and she adopts an expressive tone. 

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me here.” She puts a dainty, manicured finger up to her cherry red lips, and with a slight tap on his shoulder blades, she walks off in the direction of the cove, the train of her dress floating behind her. 

Staring after her for a good few moments in bemusement, he turns back to the shore, chuckling internally at the odd interaction.

It is only a few beats after the receding figure disappears behind the rocks that another one appears, this time one wholly welcome.

She wears her typical nightgown and red shawl, her loose auburn hair swaying gently in the salty air. He is struck with her simple beauty, her effortless grace, as he seems to be every time he sees her, as if it is the first time all over again, when he kicked off her mask and was gifted with a gaze of pure gold fire. 

The smile that overtakes her face when she sees him has him affirming several times again what he said confidently to Aria Challenger, cementing the truth of it firmly in his mind.

_He wouldn’t trade her for the whole world twice over._

“ _Bonsoir, mon amour.”_ His hands are still in his pant pockets, but his eyes are inviting, open, the back of his figure lit artistically by moonlight. She trudges down to where he is standing, skirts billowing softly around her bare ankles, and takes hold of his arm, pressing herself against him much the same way the woman before her did, except this time he melts into the embrace, allowing it to comfort him the way it always had and will. He loops an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to him as they both look out to sea.

“You couldn’t sleep?”

He sighs. “No. You either, I presume.”

“Indeed...I--” she cuts off, and he can hear the slight choke of despair that he knows as well as his own. He grips her tighter, draws her closer to his chest. She places gentle fingers on his waist, until they are one unit, one entity thrown against the wind. He wonders if _this_ is what Aria meant, this subtle display of intimacy that was the talk of the hotel. 

He supposes that yes, they were rather disgusting to the gaze of an outsider. 

Thinking back to the woman, he chuckles softly again, and it does not go undetected. Lauren looks up at him curiously. “What?”

He shakes his head, deciding he shouldn’t hide it. “I met Aria--Mrs. Challenger.”

_“Oh?”_ She looks surprised.

“Yes. just now.” He pauses for a moment. Then:

“I think she might have tried to...how do I say it? _Seduce me?”_

“Oh, _really_ Kieran.” To his slight surprise, she laughs, bending over in mirth. “Seriously?”

“Indeed! I guess I told her to fuck right off, in no uncertain terms.” He pauses reluctantly. “You’re not upset, are you, darling?”

“Why would I be?” She turns her face up to him, and he is caught in the wild amusement of her eyes. “I trust you. And you know that if you did do something, that you wouldn’t be able to lie to me about it!” She smiles, all shining sun and rays of light in the dark of night.

He again compares her animated face to the empty look of Aria Challenger, and appreciates not for the first time the visible intelligence, the sharpness of her mind. _Oh,_ he does _so--_

“I love you, _mon coeur.”_

That stops her for a moment, taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. Then, she smiles softly, kissing his cheek reverently and pressing herself to his side.

“I love you too. _Je t’aime, mon bonheur.”_

They don’t say anything for a long time, replicating the comfortable silence they share in moments like these back home. 

“Oh! I almost forgot!” She turns to him. “I met Mrs. Rethburn--Tina. Before this.”

“Did you? Isn’t that a coincidence--funny.”

“Yes, it is. I--she was crying, the poor thing.” Then, as if struck, she grimaces slightly. “Oh...she yelled about pity and such to me. I think it’s hard for her to bear--the scrutiny--I think.”

Kieran nodded. “As I said: pity is an ugly thing. She gets as much judgement as Aria, and she’s the recipient of--” he shakes his head. “Funny how it happens.”

“Yes, but what _can_ one else do?” She sighs helplessly. “I just told her to talk it out with her husband, but she outright _refused_ to even consider that as a possibility.” She furrows her brows, crossing an arm over herself. “I have no idea why it’s so hard for some people.”

“Well.” He smirks. “We’re not like most people, darling.”

She smiles. “No, that we _definitely_ aren’t.” 

He returns her smile. They stand together, reveling in their little secrets, their unspoken agreements. 

He points to his left, down where the shore extends outward until it disappears from their line of sight, and she understands the message. Hand in hand, arm in arm, soul caught in soul, they walk until the sun cracks the surface of the sky like a blinding eggshell, light streaming through the murky water.

———

The next morning is surprisingly quiet and tranquil. The staff had put out the newly flowered rhododendron bushes across the pier, and their subtly harsh scent flitted into the air like butterflies. 

Despite having not slept much—in fact, quite not at all—the night before, Lauren felt alert and awake. She brushed honey and sprinkled almond slivers on her toast with no lack of her usual energy, and bit into it with ardor. Her husband didn’t fare any worse, looking thoroughly content as he sipped a tall cup of espresso that Angelina had dropped in front of him with a smile. 

The seat usually occupied with the Rethburns was currently empty, devoid of the tragic couple. Lauren and Kieran looked at each other, him raising an eyebrow and her shrugging, sighing with defeat. It seemed they would remain absent.

She was proven wrong, for Patrick Rethburn surprised them by rising earlier than they had ever seen him.

He came down from the chateau main looking for all the world over like a man who is thoroughly done waiting. He stops by the table and grips the nearest chair tightly in his palms, strong hands turning white with subtle tension. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, and his feet twitched like he was just short of pacing in impatience.

“Where’s your wife, Mr. Rethburn?” Kieran queried none-too-smoothly, drawing the man’s attention to the couple sitting beside him. Lauren resisted the urge to kick Kieran under the table.

He turned to Kieran, anxiety not lost on the two of them. “Oh...she went to the cliff over there with that Briarton lady...something about airing out her clothes...I don’t--”

He cut himself off, hurriedly scanning up and down the embankment. Lauren and Kieran exchanged curious glances, not sure what to think of it.

He once again bites down on his lip, scuffed shoes tapping against the brick layer of the pier. He looked up and down the shore, scanning the coastline for an unknown entity. 

Once again the Sinclair-Whites shared a clandestine look. They both surmised what he was so impatient for. A little vision of a red haired woman in green gossamer popped into their minds, unbidden. Kieran shook his head in disappointment. Lauren bit her lip and closed her eyes in weary acceptance of the matter.

Apparently having had enough, Patrick Rehtburn shook his head decisively and gestured out towards the general direction of the cove.

“I’m….going to go… **walk just for a little.”**

Unable to do anything but nod, Lauren and Kieran watched his strong back retreat down the pathway.

Kieran turned to his wife, once again adopting a look of silent disappointment. “Well. I guess that’s that.”

Lauren sighed. “I should have known she wouldn’t take my advice.”

Kieran patted the table consolingly. “It’s nothing that you can fix, darling.” He looked rather dismally out to the cove. “Just a matter between two fools.”

Then, he laughed, Lauren looking at him in bemusement. 

“ _Did_ you know--did I tell you--she called me a fool, yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Yes, she did! When I talked about you. She called me an utter fool. It was amusing,” he hid his mouth behind his hand in subtle embarrassment, “to hear that from her.”

“Hm...I don’t know, subordinate. You can be foolish sometimes.”

“Oh, take me down, why don’t you.”

“You know I do try terribly, _mon bonheur.”_

A pause, then--

“She--Tina--called me a fool too.”

_“Didn’t she?”_

“Yes! Aren’t we on equal footing now, subordinate!”

“That we always will be, darling.”

  
  
  


———

All was content on the beach. One by one patrons flitted down from the chateau--the Fairsons, Mr. Grandier, Rosa in true spirit, fashionably late. The only people not on the pier by the the clock inside registered 9:30 were Mrs. Rethburn, Mrs. Briarton, and Kenneth Challenger, who was notably absent from his balcony this morning. 

At around 9:45, when the sun was beginning to ascend to its apex in the clouded sky, Mrs. Fairson up and declared that she wanted to go for a nice walk by the cliff sides. 

Her husband, completely and utterly opposed to the idea of even venturing near the water, vehemently refused to attend, so in true fashion, Mrs. Fairson huffed, picked up her stole and her purse, hiked up her frankly alarming mass of canary yellow skirts, and strode inelegantly down the pathway that Mr. Rethburn had taken earlier, ignoring her husband’s loud and irritable protests. 

Contrary to her husband’s belief, she _had_ been outside of the Ardhalis main, once, thank you very much: when she was newly sixteen, she and a couple other debutantes had ventured out of the capital and into the bars right on the outskirts of town. Of course, they had stayed in their cars, and had booked it when they first caught a glimpse of a drunk man, but that was beside the point. The _point,_ she reasoned, was that they were all wrong about how well she could handle herself. She could, she would prove it to her silly husband and his stupid opinions of her.

A little ways off the chateau main, she ran into Mr. Rethburn. He’d been walking for a while, his pants scuffed with white dirt from the paved walkway and his normally perfectly coiffed hair blowing charmingly in the salt-tinged wind. When he heard her approach, he turned a positively darling smile upon her and greeted her with his traditional enthusiasm.

“Ahoy there! Came to join me, Madame?”

“A-ah. Yes. I have! Is it nice?”

“Terribly! I’ve been walking for a bit...but…”

His voice took on a plaintive note. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen anything that’s caught my interest quite yet.”

“Oh! But I’m sure something will come along. The Southern Coast is always so lovely, I’m sure--” 

She prattled on, falling in step with his unhurried and languid pace. Although, she could see dully out of her peripheral vision that he appeared to scan the embankment every so often...looking for something. Some _one_ , perhaps, that was also a possibility. 

“Been here often?”

“Well...oh not exactly. **But sometimes! I came down here with my friends once, before I was married.** That was positively lovely, the sea of course always is, absolutely. And I--”

They stopped, a little ways off the rock-encrusted archway leading into the cove’s main clearing. There, they could perfectly see the cropping of the ocean, and hear the seagulls cry their woes into the expanse below. But the almost intimidating beauty of the place was not what stilled their feet. 

They could see a body, lying artistically in the middle of the cove, like a painting, a model for a sculptor of canvas and paint. It was the body of a woman, adorned in green and with a wide brimmed hat concealing her face. Mrs. Farison knew who she was at once, from the cut of her dress and the quality of her _chapeau_ to the way her legs lay. It was that woman that was flouncing about the chateau and wreaking havoc. Now what was her name…?

_“Aria!”_

Ah, yes! That.

Mr. Rethburn’s handsome face broke out in a massive grin, and he waved a hand towards the prone figure. “ _Darling!_ Up here!”

Wasn’t this a little...wrong? Mrs. Fairson shouldn’t be here, she shouldn’t have been intruding on what was obviously a private affair. She felt uncomfortable, folding herself into the small shadow of the archway as best as she could, trying to stave off the unexplainable unease building in her chest.

No response came from the woman below. Patrick’s face immediately registered confusion, then mounting anxiety. He began to the run down the pathway, Mrs. Fairson in reluctant tow, until he reached the body. Kneeling, he touched a gentle hand to her shoulder, and then, as if burned, retracted it.

“It’s….cold. _It’s too cold--”_

He turned the body over.

———

Lauren bit her lip. 

“What’s wrong?” Kieran asked, looking a little uneasy himself. Lauren looked at him appealingly. 

“Something’s off. I can feel it. What’s--”

“I know. I feel it too. I thought I was the only one.” He gave a cursory glance around the embankment, but everything seemed as normal. Once again, the myriad rhododendron bushels swept their strong scent up to Lauren’s nostrils, permeating her senses and doing nothing much to calm her steadily mounting nerves.

Suddenly, as if by direction, a stage entrance, even, a scream broke out from across the pier. Turning, all present were shown the sight of Mrs. Fairson, hysterical and mascara running tracks down her ruddy cheeks, barrelling down the pathway and into the arms of the nearest patron, who happened to be Mr. Briarton.

“My good lady, what--”

“ _Please, please! Someone--help!”_ She shouted, face contorted in utter panic. Lauren felt bile rise to her throat--not here. Not here.

“Mrs. Fairson, please--you have to--”

“Someone’s--oh _god,_ someone’s been-- Aria. It’s that woman, Aria--Mrs. Challenger--She’s--god, _God.”_ Her figure toppled, clumsy feet tripping in her haste on her bulky layered skirts and wraps.

Mr. Fairson ran to his wife, taking her collapsing form and shaking her. “Fool of a woman! You have to say what--”

Trembling, she pointed a single shaking finger down the pathway, then wordlessly collapsed in a boneless heap. 

Lauren and Kieran wasted no time, instinct and years of experience overriding their senses. Along with almost half of those assembled on the pier, they raced down the embankment, down to the pathway and ran the full length of the stretch, the salty tang of the air now a sting in their faces. 

When they reached the alcove, they all stopped dead. 

Patrick Rethburn stood from his kneeling position, his arms trembling and face contorted in utter and striking pain. And below his form, another lay.

She was pale, paler than the moonlight she’d been shrouded in last night. Even then her skin glowed, figure sparkling like set gemstones on her cold, dead frame. She was still as lovely in death as she had been in life, still as moving, beckoning. 

The sight of the body came upon Lauren as almost morbidly normal. She’s seen--she knows. But it wasn’t that that made Lauren suck in a horrid, rasping breath, and what made Kieran freeze in utter and abject panic. 

Her delicate neck was scarred with a necklace of red and purple, bruises running deep as the skin. Blood, too much of it, seemed to pool from her back, where she’d been shot clean through her chest. The red liquid flowed across the rock, like an arrow, directing their eyes to the painterly contrast between the cold orange rock, the sticky brown liquid and--

A bunch of lavender blossoms-- a purple hyacinth, resting solemnly in the red waves of blood. 

A curtain opened upon the scene. And so it began, the nightmare of a play written by the devil himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) you all thought.  
> \- Aren’t you happy with me??? We have murder! Finally! I mean, of course it’s not good...but y’all knew where this was going.
> 
> \- This was the chapter that had been floating around in my head the whole time I was starting to write this fic, and finally getting around to actually crafting it is kinda cathartic. I hope you all enjoy it :) and the terrible, wonderful Lune goodness to follow. 
> 
> \- The second part of this chapter is literally just good, old fashioned fanfiction-- Kieran being an absolute simp for Lauren--and I am absolutely not ashamed of it. I am feeding the Lauki gods with my bullshit
> 
> \- I also wanted to take the time here to thank you all profusely for the utter, overwhelming support on my latest endeavor, my fic “Four and Twenty Blackbirds.” I don’t think I can express how much I adore every comment and kudo I received on that AND this fic. This community is so supportive and I am so glad that I am pleasing you all with my writing. I must sound like a broken record, but it really does mean the absolute world. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. May my future pieces continue to impress and indulge you.
> 
> \- That being said, try and catch all the subtle references I threw in from that fic into here ;) I’m not subtle, am I?
> 
> \- Have y’all checked out “The Language of Flowers?” I throw in some motifs from there too at times. It’s not a prerequisite but def check it out whenever you want a break from the M U R D E R >;)
> 
> \- Rhododendrons: aside from the absolute ass of a name to spell, they symbolize foreboding, wariness.
> 
> \- I forgot almost! My oopsie— THANK YOU FOR 500+ HITS. I AM ASTOUNDED AND ALSO DEAD ON THE FLOOR. Y’all are wonderful <3
> 
> Hope you continue to enjoy this fic!! Love you all lots, and, of course, as always and forever, kudos/comments are honey toast and almonds <3
> 
> -thumbipeach


	7. Deal and Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ready to get to work?”

The entirety of the country of Ardhalis’ police force was divided into several perfect sects, cut like a perfectly sanctioned pie.

There was the capital, of course, where the police ran threads as deep as tree roots into the motley mix of dens and dungeons that constructed the twelve legendary precincts; and as such, they were the most unified, the most revered across the country, the one whose stories were told in both hushed whispers and booming lectures. 

Then the smaller sects, out in the West and East and North and--yes--South. Each with their own head and inner workings, their own problems and grievances, their own issues they dealt with on the daily. 

When Captain Martin Andrés sat down in his leather backed chair and kicked his feet up in his presiding office in the police precinct of _Des Angoisses_ that morning, he would have left immediately upon entry if he had known if the day that would follow would give him _this_ much of a migraine.

First, his wife had kindly written him a letter, dated back to about two weeks prior (damn the mailing service in this part of the country, never delivered on time, never would) from their cottage in the highlands, claiming that she had found his aunt in absolute and utter offense when she had mocked her best Sunday dress, and would he _please_ just stop his work for a moment so he can take to her to the capital for just a day--

Sent off with the archivist to the bins. Well. One way to do it.

Second, his most faithful Constable had spilled an entire cup of coffee--complete with scalding hot cream and an undissolved lump of sugar--on his person. His smart uniform, which when he was younger he’d held up to his then lanky frame and admired so--was now irreparably stained. Constable Avery had apologized furiously and had even come back toting a cloth, several cloths, to lovingly wipe him down with, but he’d refused adamantly and locked himself in his office to stew in his darkening mood and liquid soaked dress pants.

The third would have been that--typical of _Des Angoisses,_ a relatively sleepy town if you didn’t count the occasional flock of idiotic and vapid noble tourists--there was nothing going on.

It _would_ have been, if not for the final nail in the coffin.

_This._

Constable Avery had come back just in time, when his pants were almost fully dry. Captain Andrés had just been about to begin the inevitable disdainful lecture about coming in without knocking, when, heaving with exertion, he’d slammed a wire onto the table and looked the Captain dead in the eye.

“Sir. _Sir._ I--it’s--”

“Speak _up,_ Avery, what is it?”

He sighed. “There’s--I--” he huffed, whether out of exasperation that the Captain was just not understanding the situation despite not having explained it whatsoever, or out of the residual stress on his unfit limbs--”There’s...been a murder.”

There was a dead silence in the office, only the humming of the electric fan and the crowing of the seagulls demanding scraps from passersby outside the open window disturbing it. 

Senses dulled from shock, Capitan Andrés could only manage a “What?” and go weakly back to shaking out his trousers.

“ _There’s been a murder, Capitaine.”_

He laughed. “Oh sure, where? Mrs. Delgati’s again? I’ll bet the only thing dead in that hell hole is whoever attempted to eat that wretched chicken pot pie and kneeled over from it--”

_“Sir. Really._ There’s been a murder. Someone is _dead.”_

The Captain snapped to at the serious tone--for the Constable only ever operated at dry countenance or thinly veiled sarcasm. This was entirely new. He placed his hands on the desk.

“When? _Where?”_

_“La Belle Chose._ This morning, not but a couple hours ago.”

_La Belle Chose._ Dammit, so it was probably nobility. Serious it was, then. 

Pausing only to jump and fasten his suspenders again, he immediately donned his coat and beckoned for the constable to follow him out of the office. He does immediately, grabbing the Captain’s half-mask out of the open drawer for him helpfully. 

The Capital is the only area of Ardhalis that dons the full white police mask. The rest of the sects only wear half, a sign of respect for the capital city. Of course, they are semi-impractical, the cut of the mask messing with the officers’ depth perception on more than one unfortunate occasion, a grievance that the Captain had brought up at _several_ meetings, but the prayers were never answered and the South Ardhalis’ force still wore the little things, stitched to perfection with pristine white thread.

“Details, now. What happened, where--I don’t think I need to ask why, right? We know that already. Noble spit up.”

“I--no sir--hold on.” He struggles to catch up as the Captain swiftly orders his team into transport and strides into the long hallways towards the doors of the precinct office. “We--it’s a noble woman, her name is--or was, I guess-- Madame Aria Challenger, an actress in the Ardhalis main. Married, no children. Found dead in the Fae’s Cove at around 10:00 today. Two hours ago. Strangulation and a bullet wound, the patrons tell us, but that’s going to remain unconfirmed until we get our people down there--I-- _Capitaine. Slow down, s’il vous plait.”_

The Captain stops, pressing a hand to his temples. Oh, a headache it was. He wishes he had a blackberry tart about now, it always soothed his migraines. And certainly not from Mrs. Delgati, wretched woman, but from that little shop up in the west side, with whipped cream and mint leaves--

“Capitanne. Please! We have to--”

“Yes, yes, I know, let’s go. Officer D’Angiou! A car, _s’il te plait!”_

_“Ouais, Monsieur Capitaine!”_

As they walk, the constable briefs him on what they know so far. Not so much it seems--early to mid thirties, affluent. Married to Admiral Kenneth Challenger, a military man from the capital. Bad news; he was decently prominent, enough that Captain Andrés had actually heard of him. That made it tough. Then, the Constable stops and puts a thoughtful finger up to his chin. 

“You know, the owner called, they--they told me something rather odd.”

“What is that, now?”

“Well--they said...something strange. Claimed--”

_“Yes?!”_

“Claimed they found a flower at the scene. A purple hyacinth, laid in the blood from the gunshot wound. Isn’t--well--I thought, isn’t that the royal flower? The one from the crest?”

The Constable continues onward, not noticing that he’s now in the lead. When he finally turns to address his superior, he finds him stopped dead in his tracks, a puzzled look on his face.

“Captain?”

He’d remembered something--it was in his younger days, when he’d first joined the police force, an eager and young fisherman’s boy. The Constable was perhaps too young, too new to have remembered it-- but Captain Andrés recalled how during the occasional lectures the police chief at the time gave of the dangers they faced as policemen--which was often, using the capital’s fairy tales to scare the young’uns into sharpening up--the chief had made mention of a phantom unlike the rest, risen above the dredges of amateurs to become someone the capital’s police feared like no other. The tale had trickled down his spine, sending shivers that had passed through his whole body. 

A man, a wraith, a silent devil, who laid flowers at the feet of his victims.

_“Capitaine!”_

He snapped back, the image of the worried face of Constable Avery playing in front of his eyes. At once he became serious, stoic, the chief he’d always wanted to be but never got the chance to. 

“Avery. If I don’t get a car here within the next five minutes I’m going to demote all of you to janitorial duties. _Allez! Now!”_

_“O-Oui, Monsieur Capitaine!”_

So.

They were dealing with something much, much bigger than the dormant _Des Angoisses._

Damn this day, really.

———

Kieran felt like his ears were stuffed with cotton. 

He couldn’t hear what anyone else had begun to try and say, though he could see Patrick’s mouth moving, Mr. Briarton beginning an approach. He could feel the trembles of the near hysterical cluster of women behind him, all of whom were unused to seeing a dead body. How nice, that this was their introduction.

But that wasn’t what he could focus on. No--his mind, his traitorous mind--it tunneled, his vision clouding white around anything that wasn’t the simpering stalk of blossoms sitting delicately, tauntingly, covered in blood.

A color--a plant, a mere product of nature--he hadn’t dared face straight on in--how long had it been, now? 

Ten years. Ten years and he was still running from this--this _fucking_ flower.

No. That wasn’t it and he knew it. As Lauren would have probably told him if he’d voiced this: ”You’re just burying it under what you want to pin it on.”

_Lauren._

He managed to tear his face away and look towards his wife, who’d not said a single word. She was standing still, staring blankly at the same thing he’d just been. Her golden eyes, just last night filled with more animation and clarity than ever before, were now blank. It brought him back to a time where they were still controlled thoroughly by the things they dared not let escape their chests.

It scared him--more than the body lying in front of him, a parody of his past hobby.

_“What the hell--What the hell is going on here?!?”_ Mr. Briarton, looking more irritated rather than necessarily upset.

_“My god--_ she’s dead, isn’t she?” Mr. Grandier, typically pompously stuffed chest deflated in shock and astonishment.

“God. God help us. God help me--I’m--” Mr. Bessly, who’d come onto the scene with fear in his voice.

Rosa looked like she wanted to shriek, but held herself back by sheer self-control. Mr Briarton was still trying to get Mr. Rethburn to speak, but he was inarticulate, clumsy mouth attempting to form words but failing, blood still slathered up until his elbows, a lovely visage for a painting, if only it wasn’t destroyed by tragedy. 

While everyone else was preoccupied with what was before them, Kieran could sense Lauren in front of him, breathing mechanically, almost without feeling. He caught her expression for a fleeting moment, and it seemingly revealed nothing. Blank, stolid eyes, grave countenance but strong mettle in the set of her shoulders and chest. A police officer’s impartial stance. For anyone else, she would have looked to all the world like a brave agent of the law--which she never managed to fall short of--stalwart and with the appropriate level of indifferent concern. 

But Kieran saw past that. Down, deeper. There was something else, hidden by the calm act of the police officer, the role of the great and weathered detective. 

Fear. And anger. 

He’d never wanted to see that, not on her face, not ever again. 

He made to speak, to mouth, to whisper, but Lauren stopped him with a sharp, quick glare. He knew what she meant.

_We’ll speak later._

Then, turning back to the scene at hand, she immediately stepped forward and took absolute command of the situation. Lauren Sinclair had many vices indeed, but her reflexes and response time were not yet dulled by time, still a blade that could cut through even the thickest of ice.

“Absolutely nothing must be touched. Mr. Rethburn--kindly step away from the body, please, I-- _no, do as I say. There isn’t any time for this.”_ He’d made to touch Aria’s shoulder again, to even take the hat off as if she was still alive and well and he was still her grateful bellboy, but Lauren stopped him with a graceful palm and a beseeching, moving tone. He looked at her first blankly, then balefully, scorn stitching his sorrowed gaze. He looked so much like a boy who had lost his first puppy; his eyes shone with the beginnings of wet tears and his mouth lanced through with anger. 

_“I’m being completely serious._ I understand that this is horrific, but the most important thing is that the scene is preserved for the police.” She looked around. “Who we are going to call, _immediately.”_

Mr. Grandier turned a scrutinizing eye on her, hands on his hips and a lofty expression of dismissal on his face. “And who _exactly_ are _you_ to order us around, _Madame_? We understand the importance of this, surely, but we’re all in shock right now, same as you.”

Lauren leveled him with an impassive, amazingly patient stare. Kieran was still astounded by the levels of admiration he still could gain for his wife, even now, after he’d thought he’d gone through it all. 

“I’m not going to try and devalue that. But this is a _crime scene._ Things must be done properly.”

“Which brings me back to my point: who the _hell_ are you to know that sort of thing?”

Somewhere behind them came a low, embarrassed cough, and when they turned to look they were faced with the sheepish, unsure face of Mr. Fairson, a fist raised in quiet acknowledgement. Behind him, Rosa stood, also looking rather unsure, hesitant. She shrugged helplessly at Lauren, but she merely waved a hand and looked comfortingly at the other woman. Mr. Fairson spoke.

“I’m….sorry, Madame Sinclair-White...I didn’t think you necessarily wanted--I mean, I didn’t want to--”

“It’s _fine, Monsieur.”_ Lauren shook her head. “ _Pas du problème._ Under the current circumstances I don’t suppose it matters now.”

_“What_ is--”

Mr. Fairson once again coughed self-consciously. “ _Madame_ here is...I’m honestly surprised you don’t know, you’re from the capital yourself--but--she’s the Chief of Police. Chief Sinclair.”

“So I do think, _Monsieur,”_ Rosa cut in, glaring at the taken aback politician, “that she has a _perfect_ say in the matter.”

All assembled turned to look at Lauren, in surprise, astonishment, disbelief. There were a handful of people that it made sense their not knowing, not living or having grown up in the capital. But those who did hail from central Ardhalis suddenly racked their brains, connected the dots from the mysterious woman to the exalted figure they remembered dully from the newspapers all those years ago, a sepia photograph of a red haired, regal fox amongst leaves of palm.

_“Chief Sinclair….oh, I’m--”_

“So you _see--”_ Lauren cut in, not willing to waste any time, “--we must act quickly before these wounds begin to clot.” She turned to the back of the cluster of people, where Rosa stood, determined and set. It was impressive, the girl’s nerves. She looked a calm to rival Lauren’s, a placid acceptance and willingness. Lauren nodded towards her.

“Rosa. You’re limber--and what’s more, you’re wearing pants, thank god. I need you to run and get Mr. Desmond--try not to alert his daughter, but it’s not any fault of yours if she comes to know from you--and get him to ring up the police here at once. All the men here, stay--in case something occurs we need to be ready.”

Rosa nodded and about turned, running back up the pathway towards the chateau, her steps long and light. Lauren then regarded the assembled company. 

“Now. I need to know some things.” She folded her arms behind her, an unconscious imitation of her uncle, all those years ago, in the square of chaos. Lauren and Tristan had been poles apart in personality--but Kieran supposed that all family came from the same root, in the end. She looked challengingly, openly at the spectators watching her display of strength and authority with a newfound respect.

“Who was the last person to see Mrs. Challenger alive? Can anyone recall?”

_Moonlight dancing on milky white skin. Simpering eyes, a too crimson blush. Attempts made, denied. A rebuttal, refusal._

_“You are a fool.”_

_“That I may be.”_

_Don’t tell anyone you saw me here._

“I think...it might have been me.”

All turned to regard him now, the once insignificant actor in the scene, his introductory role that of the immediate suspect. He could see the confused--and to his mild horror, understanding and knowing--looks on those present. Mr. Rethburn now looked at him with contempt, the others judgmentally, as if they knew what a man who looked like himself would be doing alone with a woman like her.

Laurens face morphed into one of horror, realization, then abject exasperation. She looked at him with a silent glare, and if she had not managed to school her expression back he was sure she would have thrown her hands up in utter defeat, mouth agape. He tilted his chin and looked down at the patrons of the chateau, every one of them now assessing him.

“I was out on the shore last night--you can attest to that yourself, darling--” he threw a cursory glance at his wife--”when she approached me. She didn’t indicate anything out of the ordinary to me--and after I’d frankly rejected her appeals at the company she wanted she walked off in the opposite direction. I did not see her again.” He was diplomatic, fair. It was a believable enough tale.

_It was the truth, dammit, why did it have to be--_

“Did she seem odd, of any sort? Anything out of the ordinary?” Lauren probed.

Kieran couldn’t help the sardonic smirk that lifted his lips, no doubt doing nothing to help his case but there nonetheless. “No, nothing strange. I assumed her actions last night were typical of her.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Mr. Rethburn piped up, his expression angry, looking with jealousy upon the raven haired man that was the target object of his misdirected grief. Kieran’s eyes glinted, pearls of blue set in cold steel.

“I’m afraid there’s no way to put it delicately--she tried to make a pass at me last night. I refused and she went the other way.” He looked solemnly at Lauren. “That is all.”

She regarded him stolidly for a few moments, and then, apparently momentarily satisfied with her assessment, nodded in acceptance. She turned back to the figures standing around the dead body. 

“Considering the area and the time, it may be a couple of hours before the police get here. I want able people stationed to keep watch on the body until they do. Mr. Desmond will be here shortly, so men--and women who can handle it--take turns, two at a time. Immediately report anything suspicious to me, or the police when they get here.” She scanned the mix of faces once more, assessing the hurt, fright, suspicion and apprehension amongst them. “Until then, everyone else please return to your rooms in the chateau. Take your breakfast there if you have to. I _cannot_ allow anyone to leave their rooms until the local police arrive. Am I made very clear?”

Mr. Fairson piped up meekly. “ _Madame_...shouldn’t there be no need for the police? I mean, you--”

“No. I am not the presiding officer in this area and I have no jurisdiction over what happens here.” She shook her head decisively. “I plan to assist in any way I can, but I technically do not have any legal capacity to make authoritative decisions.” 

Mr. Grandier once again butted in, voice irritatingly nasal: “My good woman, are you looking at this?!” He gestured violently to the thing they had all momentarily forgotten, the docile hyacinth sitting tauntingly, dangerously--”You surely must know what _that_ means.”

Lauren didn’t say anything in response, silent. The man continued.

“This is _serious!”_ He looked around, beckoning to all, although he didn’t come near to Lauren’s command over those assembled. “Some of you all here aren’t old enough to remember, but _I_ do--” and he looked at Lauren, pointed a finger, “—and so must you! You know exactly what _that_ means, Chief Sinclair. It means we’re dealing with--we’re dealing with the P--”

Lauren once again held up a hand towards him. “Sir. I don’t want to create any unnecessary panic, here. I do understand what that flower means--” she ran a hand over her face, “but there are external factors that I cannot ignore in favor of my own suspicion. You’re going to have to place your trust in me and the police for the time being.” She glared up at him.

She looked back down towards the body, a clandestine and hidden wave of fear, one of her own kind, washing briefly over her face. Then, as quickly as it came, it vanished. The police’s masks were not always the white curve of plastic, but internalized, deeper than they realized. 

“Now, then. _Am I made clear?”_ She asked once again, and the crowd seemed to all bow in deference, though reluctantly and with lingering traces of doubt. Mr. Rethburn was the only one to not stay silent, his hands still trembling with rage, smeared with quickly clotting stains.

“If I _ever--_ when I find the person who did this I’ll--” he made a throttling motion with his bloodstained fingers, and the genuinity in it made even Mr. Briarton flinch backwards.

Lauren turned to him with ferocity. _“Monsieur._ There is a time for that and it is certainly not _now._ I don’t want you here. You are, frankly, too emotional, and I need level-headed people.” She made to walk back up the pathway, Kieran in tow, when she whirled round once more, golden eyes flashing, slits narrowing like a predator, a viper. 

“My advice, Mr. Rethburn? _Find your wife.”_

She then began the long trek back to the chateau main. Kieran fell into step behind her, watching her skirts trail delicately, deceptively easily across her ankles. Then she slowed so they were walking side by side once they reached the pier. As people began to filter back into the hotel lobby solemnly, like a funeral procession, she hesitated, walking just close enough for her fingers to brush his sleeve, tug at the soft fabric in silent signal. She still did not meet his gaze, her head downcast, red bangs hiding her face from the light.

They trudged back up to their room, their legs caught in a slow syrup of weariness and disbelief. The door opened. Lauren walked in and stopped in the middle of the room, Kieran shutting the door as soft as he could behind him, both of them barely registering the definitive click of the door lock. Kieran leant heavily against the door, resting his full weight on it, pressing his palms into the wood, his knuckles brushed with white tension.

For several palpable heartbeats, they did not move. They did not speak. 

He recalls the day he walked into her precinct like a cuckoo in a robin’s nest, the infiltrator, so, so long ago. The silence, the tension, the rigidity in her shoulders. The only difference was, he couldn’t see her reaction this time, her back still turned to him.

Then, it broke like an ice floe in a warm winter, and she whirled on him. Now he could see it--her eyes were stormy, angry, like she was a rope threatening to snap any second. 

_“Kieran.”_ Her voice was hard, devoid of warmth, so unutterably desperate. He wanted to wilt under her gaze--but he could never forget who he once was, and he set himself like hardened candy, pulled taffy wrung to thin. He met her gaze with his own cold one, on the defense.

“Kieran. _Kieran.”_ She took a threatening step forward. “I need--” another one, her foot meeting the floor harshly.

“I _need_ you to look me in the eye. _Look me in the eye._ And tell me--” she breaks for a moment, her voice cracking.

“Tell me you didn’t do it.”

There are hopeless threads of silence that drop from the sky and into their palms. He flounders, drowning in not only her distaste but his own, his own hatred of himself. 

But he is brave. He is still, after all these years, calculating and cold.

He straightens from his cornered stance by the door, palms up, dropping his walls for her. He looks his wife dead in the eyes, a challenge, an attestment. 

“Lauren. I _did not_ kill her. Believe me, please.” It is breathless, worn, hurt, all things at once.

Two seconds of tense, agonizing silence. Then, utter relief floods into Lauren’s face, smoothing the distress so much that it makes him feel relieved too. 

“You’re not lying. _You’re not lying._ Kieran.” and she looks him square in the face, striding forward to meet him. He instinctively draws his arms up around her smaller frame, wrapping her close to him despite his deepening desire for space. She whispers into the crook of his neck.

_I believe you. I believe you._

He releases a breath he did not know he was holding, those simple words pouring cold, momentary relief over him. He clutches Lauren tighter, burying his face in her hair, the scent of honey and soft, fresh flowers keeping him tied to reality, grounding him only how she can. 

Then, she tears herself away from him as much as he pushes her off, both recognizing their mounting need for distance. He once again feels like a cornered puppy, folding himself into the wall as far as the door will allow, like he wants to dissolve into it. She paces the floor again, running hands through her hair to distraction, knocking the braided daisies and freesia petals out of her hair, falling to the ground like feathers. Her fingers claw at her arms as she turns to him, palms out in helplessness. _“Kieran--”_

_“Lauren.”_

“Kieran this is absolutely--I’m--if the King--oh _god_.” She stops her frantic pacing for a second, panic overtaking everything else in her stance. 

“Kieran, if the news of this gets to the King in the capital we are in _deep_ goddamn _shit.”_ She wrings her hands out, clutching invisible nothings in her trembling fingers.

“I know.” His voice is dead, hoarse with disuse and disbelief. She stops at the haunted, hunted wave of his usual deep baritone, but continues onward, pressing the bruise.

“I--I _definitely_ cannot get us out of it. It’s too--they’re going to know, if they find out you’re here, they won’t listen to a _goddamn_ word I’ll say, and--”

_“Lauren.”_

That stops her, and she turns to him silently. His face must look horrid. He straightens, avoiding her gaze, eyes still burnt with emotionless, dispassionate blue. 

“I...need a moment. I need to--” but he is already walking to the balcony, only turning back slightly to throw open the glass doors and clutch the railing outside, breathing in the fresh air that wafts up from the ocean beyond. Looking over his shoulder, he sees his wife still, then soften, dropping her arms in defeat. They lock eyes, and she nods, moving to collapse into the desk chair, upsetting the piles of papers strewn upon it. They look at each other in silent agreement.

They _both_ need a moment. 

Kieran falls backward, a graceful angel, upon the small wicker chair in the middle of the balcony. It’s the first time since the--the _flower--_ that he’s managed to sit down, and his legs ache with the strain of standing on his two feet while resisting the urge to sink into the ground. Closing his eyes, he lets his back rest on the chair heavily, the rod digging into tense muscle, offering a massage of pain to his inarticulate body.

He closes his eyes, and then opens them immediately, for he can only see the imprint of the purple flower, dancing unbidden underneath his lids. 

He’d somehow managed--through a strenuous effort on both his and Lauren’s part--to avoid it for the past ten years. They never grew the flower in the house, never kept it in their windowsills like all the other nobility did--and when the property inspectors came to question they’d lied through their teeth, said she was allergic, that he had a sensitive nose--all that to avoid the fear that still gripped his heart, forcing him to replay every time he’s pressed the stem into his fingers, had flung it down on burnt crimson cobble, on a rug in someone’s room, lit with viscous red paint--

He tilted his head further back, watching the soft blush-pink peony petals in the hanging planter overhead blow out in the breeze, fluttering down to the ground like leaflets. He can’t hear the deafening roar of police sirens yet; they must be really slow, slower than in the capital. But that’s to be expected--there’s not too much activity that goes on here. 

Attempting to steady his breathing into a constant rhythm once more, he stared blankly out at the seashore, no thoughts running through his head but that of a train of sorrow, of remorse, of a fate he’d tried to run from for years, now to no avail.

It seemed like hours before either of them spoke. He could hear intermittently the sound of her running frantic hands over her face, her hair, and an occasional sigh, as no doubt she was deliberating, racing through her own mind for any fact, however small, she could grasp onto. 

A phrase came unbidden into his mind, one from another lifetime ago, and he cannot help himself from saying it out loud.

_“I believe firmly in the presence of evil.”_

He could hear the fog pause in its course, his voice lifting the blanket between him and his other half. He could hear a huff, and then a scraping of a chair, soft steps, the creak of a french door, and he finally turned to meet his wife’s tentative gaze from outside. He smiled, and she did too, and for a moment that was enough. Just them--just them, alone in the world together once more. 

She strode forward to meet him, wrapping her arms around him from behind and tucking her face into the crook of his neck, burying her nose delicately against his collarbone. He reached up to grip her forearm tightly, as if she was his only steel-bound anchor in their own ocean. 

“I suppose that is really true, isn’t it?” She laughed. “No reason to not believe poor Mr. Bessly now.”

Kieran hummed. “I don’t think we ever doubted it, did we?” 

He sighed, and said nothing for a few moments. Then:

“So. What’s the verdict, O’ Detective Sinclair?”

She sighed, her breath tickling the hairs at the nape of his neck. She rose, standing straight as a rod, palms never leaving their slots on his shoulders. They were perfect puzzle pieces, nestling into the gentle divots like they were meant to rest there.

“I can see several distinct possibilities,” she begins. He looks up at her, tilting his head backwards to catch her gaze, locks of coal falling against his eyes. 

“First, the identity of the murderer: It’s entirely possible that someone here knows that you are too; and they’re trying to frame you.”

Kieran exhaled harshly. Yes; that _was_ a distinct possibility. 

They’d discussed it before, when the skeletons in the massive closet of their past kept them up at night; the Scythe was like a phantom stain on the capital’s rug--never fully going away with the ministrations of a dish towel and soap, instead with remnants popping up here and there every so often, rouge anarchists still willing to fight to their deaths to bring back the idea of an abolished monarchy. He couldn’t suppress the shiver, the cold lance that ran through him. Lauren tightened her grip on his shoulder, and he squeezed her hand tightly, to ward off the demons that came nipping at his feet like stray dogs, begging to be fed. 

“It also could be just someone being foolish, flashy. An attempted copycat, you could say.” She looked back at the pier. “There are a lot of people from the capital here, and while a lot of them are young--too young to remember--there are still some that would remember the legend of the Purple Hyacinth.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was just somebody being theatrical. Not really knowing what it meant to--”

She stops. Kieran doesn’t need her to continue. 

“There’s a third possibility. It’s dim, but--it’s someone...someone who knows what the flower means.” 

He stops at that; that was something that hadn’t crossed his mind. He rises to face her, his taller frame nearly dwarfing hers, and yet when they stand together like this, they are equals as they always will be. He places a palm on the ledge of the chair and another under his chin, thinking.

“I don’t know. About that. I mean--if someone strangles and then shoots a woman clean through the chest, I don’t think they would be looking for remorse.”

To his surprise, she laughs a little, a harsh laugh like scraping bark off a tree, as if he’s said something terribly funny. At his questioning look, she elaborates.

“There it is, _mon bonheur._ That ego of yours that you keep denying.”

“What—?”

“You do realize, darling, that people used to think the _exact_ same thing about _you.”_

He pauses, considering. 

“If I hadn’t come to know the truth I would have said it as well—that people that did the things you did weren’t capable of remorse or regret. But,” she takes his jaw in a delicate hand, spreading her fingers comfortingly across his cheek, “You proved me wrong.” She steps back, shrugging. “I’m just giving them the same consideration I gave you.”

He looks at her for a few moments, then smiles affectionately, adoringly.

“You really are something else, aren’t you, my dearest officer?”

She smiles and bends into a playful bow, waving a hand with a freesia petal tucked in between her dainty fingers. “I am only the master of all, my beloved subordinate.”

He sighed, turning his head to look up the road, where any minute the sirens could come wailing. Then, suddenly, an inexplicable wave of crushing despair washed over him. He’d been the one to drag them here, hoping for something quiet, a reprieve, a break, and now—

“Lauren.” he clasped her hands in his, bending to look her in the eyes. “I’m--I’m so _sorry_.”

She gasps a little, then furrows her brows in slight frustration. “Kieran. No—”

“It’s--it’s my fault that we’re like this, isn’t it?” He looked down, ashamed and torn. “It’s _my_ past we’re running from. I--”

_“Kieran.”_ She dashed her hands from his grip to cup his face, gently turning it up to hers. “I don’t blame you for any of this. Believe me. And--” she kisses his eyelids gently, and he feels loved, warm--”I don’t regret you. Any of you.”

_That._ It makes him feel so seen it may just be the thing that breaks him to pieces. He can only nod in affirmation, too choked up to say anything, all the things he wants to say to her.

There is content silence for a few moments. Then:

“What are we going to do?”

Lauren sighed. “I don’t know, Kieran.”

She looked up at him. “I think I can clear us of it. I was overreacting a little before--I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, and she continues. “None of the police here know _who_ we are--were--really, or have an inkling. We’re too far out for that. You’re respectable enough and I’m--well, I guess my situation speaks for itself. I think that won’t be the hardest part for us, not at the moment.”

“But the murder.” He says it bluntly, and she nods in affirmation.

“Exactly.” She looked down, crossing her arms around herself. “Like I said before, standing around watching isn’t exactly my thing. I don’t...I don’t know much about the police here, like I said but--this situation. It has layers.” She tilts her chin, leveling her smart gaze with his. They look at each other, communicating silently as they so often do.

“I think, _mon amour,_ that we’re thinking the same thing.” He couldn’t help the slow grin that spread over his face, despite everything. She matched it, her face brightening with the vestiges of a thrill.

“Aren’t we now, subordinate?”

He nodded. “We’ll do a bit of...private investigating--”

“--and see if we can’t see this thing through!”

“So, dearest officer. I take it that means--”

Before he can finish, she holds up a hand between them. It’s a hand healed many times over, and yet if he concentrates he can still see the deep mark of her blade, where she cut herself and uttered the fatal words all those years ago, when they were young and stupid and blinded by their goals.

“Partners in crime once more, subordinate?” And she is all smiles, all joy and mirth. He matches her grin, all amazed flush and wonderment. He takes her hand in his, a thing of the past, a scene marked in stained glass. 

“Sounds like a deal, officer!”

He pumps her hand firmly, once, twice, seals their fate on a balcony in a shower of peony petals. 

Then, surprising her, he yanks her forward by their joined hand and pulls her into a searing kiss, one of teeth and tongue, hot mouth against hot mouth, taking, taking all she willingly gives him, her heart and her fear and her love, her acceptance. She giggles like a schoolgirl, grasping onto his collar in the victory of the moment, his undershirt bunched in her mapping, greedy hands, clutching him to her, her other half, always a willing partner. 

Lune once more.

The scuffing of cars can be heard just as he makes to push her onto the rail and kiss her senseless, and they both break apart to look at the flashes of blue and red and purple tearing down the cobbled road from _Des Angoisses._

They look at each other, caught in their embrace still. He smiles a rakish grin, blue eyes like the ocean beyond glinting their signature promise, hand clutching her waist tighter in a spike of adrenaline. She matches him, threading her hands through his hair, laughing, a smirk on her face. She is yin to his yang, day to his night.

“Well, subordinate—?”

“Ready to get to work?”

———

Kenneth sits slumped in the settee, a weak arm supporting his limp head on the cushions. The police inspector--Andy, Andrew, something or other--sits across from him, his voice a droning buzz, racing through one ear and out the other. The hyacinths in his room are still the same ones as two days ago, except now with his wife’s death they seemed to have withered with her, the purple and yellow too fastened to the stems in rot to fly off their handles. 

“You do understand what I’m saying, Admiral?”

“Hm?” He starts, finally registering the scruffy, bearded man sitting in the chair opposite, and the straight-laced Constable fishing for a notebook inside his uniformed trousers. The half-mask of the Southern Police still rests on their foreheads, and it unnerves him more than it should that he can only make out half of their faces, half of their expressions, can only see one sharp, probing eye from each. 

“Your wife is dead, found strangled and shot this morning.”

Kenneth breathes out, hot air escaping in a sighing huff. He feels like he's stuck in a butter churn, like the ones his aunt used to slave away over whenever the season came about, the rod working ineffectually over an ultimately insignificant endeavor, only producing a slim amount of the stuff, only enough to lick once before she must go to work again. 

“That is what I was told.”

“You seem awfully calm, _Monsieur…”_ Kenneth must shoot him a rather scathing look, because the Captain clears his throat and drops it. “Were you two close?”

**“As close as a husband and wife could be, Captain.”** He sighed, his fingers twitching. “I’m in a bit of shock, gentlemen, could you--?”

“Of course.”

He rubs his temples, attempting to stave off the oncoming headache pulsing in his forehead. He runs his hands through salt-and-pepper grain, stubbly and worn. He should really go to his barber soon--

“Sir. We’re going to do everything we can, rest assured.” The Captain is all serious, all ramrod strength. Kenneth didn’t know what to think of it. He sighs again, pressing divots further into his head with his fingers, trying fruitlessly to wither the pain away. 

“I’ll do whatever you ask of me, officers. I am at your disposal.”

The Captain nods solemnly. “Everyone here must be. We need full cooperation if we’re to find who did this-- this wretched thing.”

Kenneth nodded. He knew, it _was_ wretched, his wife bleeding out, her neck crushed and windpipe broken.

So why did he suddenly feel lighter, like he was floating off of his chair, onto the moon above? Why did he feel like hands that previously held him in a vice-like grip had been lifted off of his shoulders? It scared him, the truth that he’d not been able to face coming to light now, of all times.

“I am at your service.”

The Captain furrowed his thick brows, leaning forward onto his seat, elbows on his knees and palms upward in a show of appeal.

“We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow another chapter already? I live only to spoil you, lovely reader <3
> 
> \- This chapter has officially taken the spot of ‘favorite to write,’ ousting Chapter 1 with dignity. Honestly Chapter 1 was still so much fun, but the only reason this is out so fast is because it just kept me going.
> 
> \- Is that...oh god, you’ll have to squint….Lauki SPICE I see???? Indeed, yes it is. Rest easy, it has been done (although tame, there’s much better stuff out there in that department done by people who can actually write smut lmaoo)
> 
> \- On that note quite honestly Kieran simping HARD for Lauren is gonna become a common theme I might actually have to tag it now ;;
> 
> \- I have!!! Lore!!! It’s not central and doesn’t add much, just another little thing I like to throw in to add to the believability a little bit. You can also see it highlighted in Lang of Flowers, where I might flesh it out more just for shits and giggles.
> 
> \- Peonies: shame, anger; but also prosperity, bravery. Freesias: innocence, thoughtfulness
> 
> -I wonder if people are going to get intimidated at the inevitable triple-digit word count this thing is going to have,,,, oh well. I had to break up my initial google doc just for this and chapter 6 because otherwise it would have been over 100 pages long ;;
> 
> Absolute and utter adoration to all of you once again. You blew me away with the support on the last chapter (murder has you all excited, I see). As always, kudos/comments are blackberry tarts <3
> 
> (One last side note! I’m going to start putting my email in here from now on, so if by chance anyone wants to contact me to scream about things or with questions (about what idk but you never know) you can always expect a prompt reply from me there: artsofisha@gmail.com)!
> 
> -thumbipeach


	8. Begin at the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did you find?”

Lauren remembered the Captain of the South Ardhalis Police Department, however vaguely.

She recalled a couple of years ago, at a meeting with the heads of all the sects of the Ardhalis Police Force in the capital city, that she’d taken the hand of a white-haired, simple country man of near forty and shaken it warmly, appreciating his relatively unassuming nature and respectful manners. He’d introduced himself as Martin Andrés, and they’d gone on from there to the conference, amidst a group of several others like them.

She’d liked him--not for anything especially calling, but rather because she admired his simplicity, his straightforward and acknowledging manner. He was a good Captain, she’d felt.

_However, as she’d told Kieran later, she had rather low standards when it came to that kind of assessment._

_“Hermann has probably permanently damaged my impression of them; I’d honestly appreciate_ anything _that didn’t resemble him.”_

_Kieran had laughed, and they’d reflected on her ass of a former Captain in the light of it._

Now, thrust into the present, she found her initial impression still stood. The moment Captain Martin Andrés saw her again, his eyes lit up in amiable recognition.

“ _Madame Sinclair-White!_ An honor to see you once again!” He rose to meet her and Kieran, bowing a little as he bounded from the deep cushioned seat he’d ensconced himself in the front lobby.

“Likewise, _Capitaine Andrés!_ It’s a pleasure, that is sure!” She shook him warmly by the hand, his grip still firm and decisive.

He nodded at Kieran, who bowed a little, eyes downcast in a show of the meek university professor just along for the ride, and turned back to her, eyes shining. “It’ll be a right _honor_ to work with you again, Chief Sinclair.”

She smiled, even if it was a little tight, and waved her hand. “Oh! But I wouldn’t--”

“Nonsense! Listen--” and he looked around in a play of conspiratorial banter, and leaned in slightly--”I still remember when you showed up that trussed up man at that conference all those years ago. Checked his ego for him, you did!” He stepped back, smiling in reminiscence. “I’d never seen an analyst such as yourself! I’d be ever so glad to have you in my confidence for this...case.”

She didn’t miss the way his eyes dimmed a little at the mention of the matter at hand, but pressed on anyways. 

“Ah...well, really, it’s flattering but--” and she made a grand show of hesitating, never bowing her back to show weakness, but revealing other things; she fluttered her hands in unsurety, touching her neck in a nervous tic, wisps of her hair falling out of her braid with the motion, and her opposite hand brushing her skirt self-consciously. 

“I’m unsure of the nature of that idea, seeing as--” and she looked rather embarrassed--”I mean, I’m technically also a suspect, as a patron of the hotel.”

The Captain visibly repressed a scoff, evidently offended by the mere idea, but he was still a police officer, and her logic was sound. He acknowledged this with a wave of his hand. 

“My good woman, while I understand your reasoning--it’s rather ridiculous. Not only can multiple people vouch for you--” he turned to Kieran--”and your husband, but I would be loathe to be the one to imply that _you_ committed this murder, Chief Sinclair.” He smiled. “Your reputation is somewhat of a legend even here, you know!”

Lauren couldn’t help but smile, and the genuinity of it disguised the true reason behind the quirk of her lips. She could feel Kieran’s mirth in the background, dully, and she resisted the urge to hit his arm and get him to stop laughing behind his silence.

_Miss good cop, no?_

“Now, you know that isn’t very smart of you to do, _Capitaine!”_ She held up a finger. “Rule number one! Never trust anybody.”

He laughs. “Come on, _Madame!_ Aside from the fact that you clearly weren’t capable of it, I’m sure that you’ve already managed to vet out people of your own. My, I wouldn’t even put it past you that you’ve already grilled your husband on the matter!” He turned to Kieran as if sharing a joke, and Kieran took the reins.

“Of course, we’re both above suspicion in our own eyes, but to you, good sir, you should go about this a little more carefully.” He straightened, and his eyes once again were sharp, a little too sharp around the edges to be that of the simple university teacher. He quickly steeled it, wrapping his face around the familiar vice of a placid expression.

Captain Andres shakes his head, then turns back to Lauren, a little put out. “I take it this means you want to take the back burner on this case then, _Madame?”_

Lauren frowns, seemingly considering his offer. Then:

“No, I’m in, actually. You’re lucky--I’m not the murderer, it so happens,” she laughs a little, and the two men in the room with her chuckle as well—”And it would be lovely to assist in any way I possibly can.”

“Oh _wonderful!_ It’s an honor and a pleasure to work with you, Chief Sinclair.” The Captain is all smiles and clasped hands, the light titter of late afternoon birdsong offsetting the feeling of triumph he exudes in the small and well-lit lobby. Lauren smiles and turns to her husband, a little hesitantly.

“I...presume Kieran isn’t allowed to leave the chateau, as is the rest of those present?”

The Captain nods, then stops and considers it. “Normally I would be loath to allow it. But you trust him, don’t you?” He looks at Kieran, whose face registers nothing but polite impassivity. “I’m sure if it’s necessary I can have some of my men--”

“Oh, that’s perfectly alright.” He nods. **“I just need to send some letters to our family about the current situation and let them know we’re doing alright.”** He looks a bit abashed. “They worry, you see.”

The Captain nods, dismissing him. “One of my men will escort you if you’d like. But I’d remind you that you cannot leave the port city.”

_There. Done perfectly._

“Of course not.” He turns to Lauren, taking her delicately by the hand and kissing the back of it. “I’ll be back, darling. Don’t work too hard,” and he leans in, looking for all the world two lovers whispering their dues.

_“And be careful.”_

He moves towards the door, grabbing a light blue coat and shrugging it over his shoulders, hands fluttering over the buttons and the gloves in his front pockets.

She turns to the Captain as he chuckles and eyes her keenly. “Uxorious, isn’t he, your husband?”

Lauren smiles back, partaking in the joke. “Of course, yes. Devoted to me, I find.”

She relishes in the peeved expression she can see on her husband’s face, merely throwing him a winning smile as he raises an imperceptible eyebrow in annoyance.

Then, their faces smooth, all serious and secure, and they share in a clandestine nod, their secrets safe, their agreement sound. Then, with a last lingering glance, he walks calmly out the door. She watches his back receding down the pathway and feels a strange sense of foreboding, this being the first time they’ve been apart since the body was found, thrown in separate directions as one is to the wind.

Lauren shakes her head, a police dog preparing to follow the scent, and follows Captain Andrés, who, beginning the long trek up to the upstairs rooms, begins to brief her on the case. She listened attentively, never missing a beat even as her heart began to sink like lead.

“I’m sure you already are aware of some forensic details, seeing as you were one of the people that found the body; she was strangled and then shot. Cause of death appears to be the strangulation, but it is possible she was still conscious and the perpetrator had to act quickly. Time of death--well, we’re working on that, yet.”

He paused briefly, stopping at the door of Kenneth Challenger’s room. Then, turning to Lauren solemnly, he lowers his voice with a raised eyebrow.

"As I'm sure you're aware, we recovered a hyacinth at the scene. A purple one."

Lauren feels a little chill run through her, but keeps her face placid and neutral. "I _am_ aware, yes."

"We're not really too well versed in these kinds of things--killers here really aren't that flamboyant, quite honestly, to leave things like that," and he laughs, rubbing a hand behind his neck, "but I had a hope that you might be able to shed some light on the matter."

She looks at him consideringly, her face like an untouched sheaf of paper; blank and unemotive. Then, she smiles slightly, tightly, one that does not reach her searching gaze.

"I'll see what I can do, _Monsieur."_

He nods. "The owner and the husband are inside. I'd be honored if you'd be willing to assist with questioning, Chief Sinclair."

And she nods the affirmative,just as the door is opened by the young, lanky Constable behind, and they are ushered into the room.

Her first thought is that it's too tidy.

Her and Kieran are relatively neat; even then their room has the sense that it had been thoroughly occupied. But the Challengers’ room looks as though it has not been touched in years, the only sign of patronage being the still half-full suitcase by the door. The rest of it: the vanity, almost untouched except for a small jewelry box in the corner, the bed, sheets still made, floor clean and unmarked. She finds it almost uncomfortable, being in a room that doesn’t look like there had been anybody alive to make it real, whole.

Admiral Challenger sits, leaning back against the plush cream chair in the corner, head thrown back and a small lighter in his hand, toying with the cigarette in his lips. Mr. Desmond stands, pallor a deathly white, looking out the balcony window. Both turn when they enter the room.

Mr. Desmond rounds on them with an irritated expression. _“Vous etes en retard, Monsieur Capitaine.”_ He looks worn out, down to his last tether, but Lauren remembers faintly when she first caught a glimpse of him the night they came, arguing with Angelina over her ambition to venture to the capital. He looked the same then, too, and Lauren makes the judgement that this is typical demeanor; the irritable hotel proprietor. 

“ _Désolée, Monsieur Desmond._ But--” and he indicates the new presence in the room, the woman beside him--”I’ve brought someone who I think will be of immense value to this investigation.”

Mr. Desmond turns to her, and she bows politely, introducing herself.

“ _Monsieur._ I believe you already know me--I’ve been staying here for a couple days, now, with my husband.”

“Yes, I recognize you, Mrs. Sinclair-White, but I don’t see how--”

She straightens her back, crossing her arms behind her back in a show of equanimity. “I hail from the capital--I go by Chief Sinclair, there.” She smiles faintly at the surprise in his face. “I’m the Chief of Police. If you’d allow me, I could help you all get this done faster.” She looks at the both of them when she says this, and notes the quiet interest on the Admiral’s face.

Mr. Desmond splutters, then mutters a low _of course_ and sinks down into the chair next to Kenneth. 

“I just want this over with, _mon dieu_ . Who’d have thought--at _my_ chateau, no less--this horrible thing.” He runs his hands through his rapidly thinning hair, and Kenneth sighs, turning to Lauren with a defeated expression.

“I’d appreciate your help greatly in finding out who did this, Chief Sinclair--if that is the case.” 

She looks at him curiously. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Kenneth nods, his impassive and taciturn face lightening a little. “Ah...Rosa told me. I apologize.”

Lauren nods, shaking her head a little. _That woman. She’d have to be careful with her mouth._

“Now then,” Captain Andrés cuts in, sitting down in the large loveseat opposite the two men, the Constable at his side, pen and paper ready, “We’re going to have to ask both of you some peremptory questions, and I’d like you to answer them as truthfully as possible.” He looks towards Lauren. “Please, _Madame,_ draw up a chair.”

But to his surprise, Lauren shakes her head, waving a hand and turning to Kenneth. 

“I’ll stand--and if it’s alright with you, _Monsieur_ Challenger, I’d like to take a look around of my own through your late wife’s things. There might be something there that would help us. Would you mind terribly?”

Kenneth sighs and shakes his head, taking the cigarette out of his pursed lips and dropping it to the carpet below, unsmoked. The pattern is of a garish beige, dotted with purple carnations, and it nearly drowns the little thing whole, rendering it invisible. “Go right ahead. I suppose it would be inevitable, anyways.”

She nods, making her way to the vanity on the other side of the room, the mirror glinting and reflecting the picturesque scene of the men beginning their interrogation, swathed in waves of late evening shadow, light dancing upon their hard-set faces.

“So, Admiral Challenger, let’s start off with your account of this morning and afternoon right up until the news of your wife’s death. I want to know what you did—approximate times would be appreciated.”

Lauren brushed stray compact powder off the vanity desk, running her fingers through lipsticks and rouge, lining the dresser in neat rows. The end of it is the aforementioned jewelry box. It’s a robin’s egg blue, a little thing hemmed with gold piping, but is deceptively small compared to what lies inside. For when opened, Lauren comes face to face with piles and piles of baubles and bangles, stacked neatly and carefully.

“I woke up at about 6:30, as I always do. My wife was already gone. I did not see her at all that morning, but she did leave me a note on the table stating that she’d gone out. I do not know when it was written exactly, but this was not atypical of her, so I paid it no mind.”

“May we see the note?”

Kenneth shook his head. “I ripped it and threw it into the grate, I apologize.”

The Captain sighed. Lauren understood; there was a surprising number of people who disposed of things almost immediately that proved to be infuriating when things went sideways for them. Bothersome, but couldn’t be helped.

She picked through the gemstones, pausing at the glimmering emeralds, the sapphires melded into silver chains. She held one up to the light, a topaz gem set in golden brass, and studied it. 

_Horribly expensive,_ she thought. She remembered seeing something similar in the jewelry shops in the 3rd precinct when she’d gone in with Kym once. Kym had scoffed at them, and she and Lauren had taken turns trying them on and making a grand show of the prices. Lauren smiles fondly at the memory, but immediately sets her face once more, turning down to the rest of the sparkling ensemble. She raises her eyebrows when, at the bottom of the pile, she finds a golden chain with a dainty ruby--encrusted clove flower dangling from the edge. She recognizes it dully as one of a set, sold in a popular store in the 5th precinct. The store was frequented for gifts and accessories, all for women and--for the 5th’s standards, anyway--relatively inexpensive. 

_Some lover’s gift, perhaps. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say these were all gifts, in fact._

“And do you know where she might’ve been going? Why wouldn’t she have eaten breakfast with you?”

She could see Kenneth once again shake his head in the mirror. “My wife did not have a habit of eating breakfast, generally. **I don’t think I could guess exactly where she went,** though I’d assumed it was down to the shore. She’d been going down there a lot, lately.”

Lauren bristles, fingers paused over a small travel safe hidden rather hastily underneath the vanity. She grits her teeth, but doesn’t say anything to the effect, continuing her exploration after a brief pause, where she can hear the dutiful scribbling of the Constable’s pen and the calls of the seabirds through the closed french window.

“And then? What did you do through the morning?”

Kenneth shrugged. “I got dressed, had breakfast, then I sat in my room typing up letters until around...nine o’clock?”

“That’s quite a bit to be typing letters.”

He frowns. “I’m a busy man, Captain. I had a lot of things to write to the capital about.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I’m currently doing diplomatic work for a branch of the Aevasther’s cabinet. It’s demanding, and I brought some of that along with me for typing.”

_Another workaholic, then. Well._

”Would there be anybody who could attest to that—give you an alibi?”

”Unfortunately no. I was alone.”

The safe was—fortuitously and rather foolishly—left open, the lock not fully in place. Glancing up at the men over the edge of the bed, where she was crouched, assessing that she was safe, she cracked it open, revealing several documents, all marked in furious red pen.

It made sense, that; the dresses she wore probably had cost her more than she could afford.

_But her husband was evidently rich, so why--?_

“I see...and then, Admiral?”

Silence stretched for a couple moments. Then:

“I set out to go bathing. I gathered my things but...evidently I couldn’t get there in time to--”

He broke off, possibly reliving the moment when Rosa came tearing up the path, breathless and pale as an ivory sheet, saying--

Lauren frowned down at a small checkbook she’d unearthed from the bottom of the safe, amongst little golden trinkets and a photograph of a younger Aria--skin pristine and eyes shining, sitting in a garden of narcissi. Pages were torn out furiously, the scraps of them telling her nothing. 

“And...this might be uncomfortable for you, Admiral— _désolé—mais..._ would you be aware of your wife’s enemies? Anyone that might want to hurt her?”

Kenneth shook his head as Lauren rose, turning to look at the men from over where the bed separated their positions. “No. I don’t know of anyone who’d want to hurt her, **or why.”**

The Captain nodded. “I believe I asked if you two were close; did she discuss anything with you? Did she act oddly last night when you last saw her? Say anything of note?”

Again, Kenneth shook a negative. 

Captain Andrés suddenly leaned forward and cleared his throat rather awkwardly. “I’m sorry...to have to ask this of you, Admiral, as you are respectable, and I’m **sure your wife was as well.** But we must know every facet of the case that may have a bearing on the verdict. So, I have to inquire…” he trailed off, and Kenneth shifted in his seat, crossing his legs as if he were putting up a barrier, closing off his stance, almost as if he knew where this was going.

“...was your wife involved with anyone in this hotel? Or anyone that wasn’t you? Did you know if she knew anybody here prior to your stay here?”

A long few moments of nothing. Mr. Desmond spluttered a little, but the other occupants of the room seemed to have forgotten that he was there at all, not reacting to his obvious discomfort. All looked to the Admiral, sitting pretty and silent in his chair, fiddling with the catch on his lighter in a nervous tic.

**“No. She wasn’t involved with anyone here.** Frankly, though you gave me a warning, I have to find offense in that question--”

“ _Monsieur,_ please do not misunderstand—we do not wish to dig into your personal life like this, but sometimes it must be done in order to find who did had a significant motive. Are you sure she wasn’t acquainted with any of the patrons here prior to meeting them?”

**“Quite sure, sir.”**

“And was she...involved with anyone?”

“The _hell_ are you implying?”

“I’m only asking—“

**“My wife was faithful, if that’s what you want to know, you—”**

_“Stop.”_

Lauren hadn’t spoken for some time, but she directed all eyes to her with her sudden stern voice, hard as iron and commanding, drawing their attention like a siren to her rock. Her face was grave as she looked at an irritated Admiral Challenger. 

_“Monsieur_ , please tell the truth.”

Kenneth leveled her with a hard glare, and it reminded her of the day on the beach a lifetime ago, when she’d sat with Rosa and locked eyes with his challenging, intimidating gaze, the gaze of one used to getting his way with people through it.

_“Excuse_ me?”

“Chief--”

Lauren shook her head. “I don’t need to be the Chief to tell you this. Everyone at this hotel knew what was going on--and your wife certainly didn’t do much to hide it. _Lying_ to the police is not the way to get anything done.” She stopped, hands on her hips and a stern tenure to her voice. “Start over. _Tell us if your wife had any connections with any of the people here prior to her arrival. And tell us if she was carrying on an affair with one of them.”_

Captain Andrés was shocked, and Mr. Desmond looked on the verge of apoplexy, but still she did not waver, did not back down from Kenneth Challenger’s affronted and belligerent expression. They stared each other down like two foxes vying for the kill, two predators at odds over the carcass of truth before them.

Then, after several tense minutes, where the light outside began to fade and the seagull cries dimmed to naught, Kenneth let out a resigned sigh and spoke, his hands clasped together tightly, his elbows resting on his crisp pant legs as he leant forward in his seat.

“Gentlemen—and _Madame—_ as you might be aware of by now, my wife was rather an attractive woman.” He looked round, surveying the reactions of those present. “And as such, she garnered the attention of men very often.” He sighed, gesturing towards Lauren helplessly. “As _Madame_ here posits, she was seen to have been having an affair with one of the patrons here, a Mr. Patrick Rethburn, in the room downstairs.”

_“Really, Admiral?_ And you didn’t think to tell us this!?”

“Well it’s rather an uncomfortable subject to discuss, _n’est ce pas?”_

“That is so, I suppose—“

“Anyhow--” Lauren cut in, holding up the checkbook in a revealing manner, waving it in her grip, “--it helps us greatly. Admiral, were you aware that your wife was having money troubles?”

Kenneth looked shocked, then confused. “She was in _debt?_ I don’t--”

“--See how that is possible, yes. You are wealthy enough, after all.”

“Those are my wife’s private things, I’m--”

“You gave me permission, that I cannot retract.”

Kenneth sighed and shifted in his seat. “I had been aware that money was going out for some time, but I allowed my wife to do things on her own and her spending habits, while exorbitant, were not oddities. I’d just assumed she was spending more on clothes and things--she certainly came back with more of them, anyhow.” He looked up, the silver lighter falling out of his weak grip and onto the cushions. 

“Additionally, my wife...was given a large inheritance when her father died, before she married me. She’d always been reliant on that in conjunction with my own income.”

Lauren nodded. “And, when she died--did she make a will? Who would that money go to?”

Kenneth sighed. “I suppose, Chief, that it would go to me.”

“I see.”

Captain Andrés leveled Kenneth with an impatient look. “Could we bring it back to the matter at hand? Your wife was carrying on an affair--and it seems to me that you knew _full well_ about it, how--?”

“It was quite honestly not like that, Captain.”

The Captain sighed and looked at the Constable, who nodded. Then, turning back, he said:

“This sheds new light on things. I cannot possibly ignore these facts as a potential motive for the crime. It’s possible that he was jealous or she didn’t want to comply with leaving you, and he killed her. There’s also--” He pauses, discomfort lacing his tone. Kenneth picked it up.

“You think I did it. Out of jealousy,” he turned to Lauren, “and because she was draining me of money, and I wanted her inheritance to compensate.” He leant back, crossing his broad arms over himself—almost protectively. “Two birds with one stone.”

Tense silence filled the room. The Captain broke it.

“Sir, we’re just--”

“ _I know what this is.”_ He drew himself up, and Lauren was reminded that people who served in the military often carried with them the same countenance they’d had when they’d faced battlefields on the daily. He was preparing himself for a confrontation, with either himself or his present enemies, the prosecutors to his position as defendant.

“You’re wrong about it gentlemen; I didn’t kill my wife.”

Lauren let out an imperceptible sigh. That certainly cleared one person. Not indefinitely of suspicion, no. But of complicit murder, she could count it out.

But—

“Chief Sinclair, would it be impertinent of me to ask you a question directly?”

She turned to the man in question, and assented to his prodding.

“You were there. You saw that hyacinth.”

Ah.

The curtains over the balcony window shifted slightly, casting branding shadows across her face. It revealed nothing, she made sure of it; mask in place, feet set like a ballerina preparing for her cue. The only indication that she was thrown off balance, off kilter, was the slight tremble in her wrists, a delicate thing which she stifled with a hasty grip. 

“I’m assuming you know _exactly_ what that means.”

Lauren sighed, fiddling with the clasp on the jewelry box.

“The Purple Hyacinth hasn’t been seen in the last ten years. Is that so?”

“That is so.”

“So what is this, then? Another--”

“I cannot attest to the matter factually, but with all due respect, we know things about the Hyacinth at the capital.” She rounded on him, face purposefully blank. “We’re aware of his whereabouts.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s not a fact revealed to the public, but yes.”

“I see. Then, can you confirm in good faith that this wasn’t the Purple Hyacinth, despite all the evidence to the contrary?”

Lauren drew herself up, steeling her nerves and hardening her gaze into that of cold clemency. This was just one uphill battle out of the many she was anticipating, but if it meant Kieran’s safety, she’d fight it with domineering and unrelenting perseverance. 

“My good man, I would argue that there is sufficient evidence enough to disprove that it was the work of the Purple Hyacinth. Firstly, and most egregiously, he has not been active for over ten years now.”

“That doesn’t mean anything; once a killer, always a killer.”

_No. Kieran wasn’t that._

“Second, the method is wrong. We’ve studied his movements, his patterns; he did not operate outside the capital, for one.”

_Because Kieran wasn’t allowed to._

“And he was never known to use a gun as a method of killing. Typically killers stick to patterns; and one such as him especially, who had--a _signature--_ it would be even more on brand for him to keep to his regular modes and habits.”

_Guns were often too loud, too deafening in the Ardhalis proper--it was the reason he’d never used them, and it had taken a bit of instruction on her part to get Kieran to have decisive aim due to this._

“Trust me, I know the Purple Hyacinth, having worked with his cases for so many years.”

_Having worked with him, yes--but not only that. She’d shaken hands with him, raced with him across rooftops, stayed up with him late into the night. She’d fixed his collar, set flowers in his hair, slept in the same bed as him, held his face in her hand and memorized every inch. She’d lived a life with Kieran, hadn’t she? She understood, didn’t she?_

“I can definitely say that it was the work of someone else.”

_She knew. Because she_ knew.

Captain Andrés shook his head in wonderment, a breathless huff of air leaving him. “You’re _absolutely-- thank_ you, Chief Sinclair. You knew these murderers well--that helps us immensely.”

Lauren felt a hysterical laugh bubble up inside her throat, but tamped it down with a swift heel. Kenneth looked around at the assembled company, then heaved a sigh. 

“It’s getting rather late--” he gestured outside, where the sky had turned a violent crimson, orange and yellow shards falling into the voracious ocean, dotting the landscape with beams of scarlet light. Like—

No. Stop.

“--are we quite done here? Or should--”

“ _Non, non._ I think we’re done.” The Captain looked at Lauren, and she nodded an affirmative. “We’ll continue on tomorrow morning.”

They exited the room, leaving the two men behind, immortalized in stark sunset colors. The Captain gave instructions to the Constable to keep watch on the hotel tonight; nobody must be seen leaving. He turned to Lauren. “That includes your husband, I’m afraid. I don’t think I’ll be able to allow him any more—“

“ _Oh,_ that’s quite alright.” Lauren waved a hand, smiling a smile she did not feel. 

“He should be back at this time. I do hope you’ll continue to help us, Chief Sinclair.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

She trudged back to her room, fingering the jewel she’d swiped in her dress pocket.

When she opened the door, Kieran was there, sitting at the desk, sans blue coat and clad in a cotton undershirt. He looked very much the same, almost deceptively calm as he dragged a stray pencil across a piece of paper, outlining in grey lead the way the peony planter hung along the balcony roof. 

When she closed the door he turned to her, a soft, knowing smile on his face. They didn’t say anything to each other at first, Lauren unbuttoning her chemise as she retreated to the closet. Then, once she’d donned a silk nightgown of pale cream, ties dangling loose at her collar and hair let down around her shoulders, she peeked her head around the doorframe, gesturing to her husband with a lone finger.

When he came in, bag from the port town in hand, she drew back the racks of their clothing with two swift arms to reveal a corkboard, clean and unmarked as of yet. Kieran smirked in amazement, and she looked back at him over her shoulder.

“You’d be amazed at what you uncover if you dig.”

“Quite.”

She moved deftly, taking the bag from his fingers and shuffling through the contents as he went to lock the closet door. When he turned back, they were shrouded in darkness, the only light being that of a small candle, smelling of mint and lavender. In the dim of the closet, his eyes shone with their signature glint, the searching, intuitive gaze that stirred something old up inside her core.

“How did it feel, lying through your teeth, then?”

She took out pins, sheets of paper, a spare knife holster and extra wax candlesticks, and shook her head with some amusement. “It was actually horrifically easy. I had good evidence--they believed me.”

Lastly, she pulled out a tight ball of scarlet knitting yarn. Raising an eyebrow, she looked at him skeptically and waved the ball at him in a silent and exasperated question.

He responded with a shrug and a rakish grin. Striding over to her, he picked the last thing out from the bottom of the bag; a lone daisy, which he brought to his lips gently before tucking it behind her ear. Stepping back, he rested his hands in his pockets.

“I told them you knit.”

_“God.”_

———

They ordered dinner to their rooms for the first time; strawberry salad, rosé, and two slices of cheesecake, no scallops to be seen. They ate together, her on the bed and him at the desk, chatting amiably like any normal couple.

Then, when the sliver of a crescent moon began to show itself through the balcony window, they retreated to the closet like two wolves to their den, and set to work.

_“What did you find?”_

“Well, we can rule the Admiral out. He confirmed it to me; he didn’t do it.”

“That’s good.”

“It is. But I wouldn’t exactly say that he was entirely innocent; he was fully aware of his wife’s infidelity, and tried to lie about it. I wouldn’t put it past that he knew who’d at least have a motive for murdering Aria.”

Kieran nodded. “I got some information out of the Constable who escorted me down to the port.”

“Did you?”

He grinned. “It’s surprising what you’ll get out of people if you act unassuming—they’ll open up to you if you don’t act terribly interested.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I know _that._ ”

“Anyhow, I got some more detailed forensic reports. It appears that the time of death was actually right before four last night.”

“Seriously? That means—”

“That means that the body was probably there for quite a while before Mr. Rethburn and Mrs. Fairson found it.”

“But the gunshot wound—”

“That’s the thing.” Kieran walked to the board, placing a finger on a red thread connecting a photo taken from the scene, Aria’s body poised perfectly in black and white. “The gunshot wound indicates that the time of death was a lot sooner than it actually was, since it had not yet clotted.” He turned to Lauren. 

“Strangulation cases are still difficult for us.” she said. “It’s hard to pin down the exact time of death. But if we factor _that—“_

“Then we can consider the fact that she was shot _after_ she was dead.” He frowned. “This complicates things; if it had been that she was killed close to the finding of her body it would have narrowed down our list of suspects to people who weren’t present at the discovery. But this could imply that it would be--virtually _anybody,_ really.”

Lauren dragged her hands over her face in exasperation. “Well, at least we know it’s not the Admiral.”

“Pity you can’t ask everybody directly; would be a lot faster that way.”

“I’d also be breaking a _lot_ of code, y’know?”

“When have you ever been afraid of doing that, officer?”

“True, subordinate.”

Kieran turned back to the board. “Anything else?”

“Yes; I have reason to believe that Aria might have been paying somebody off.”

He whirled round on her. “Really?”

She nodded. “I found several bounced check forms from back at the capital in her private safe, as well as a checkbook with some checks missing from them that correspond to the dates on those papers. And—“ She strides over to her outfit from the day, rucking up the skirts, and drags the necklace out of the inner pocket, holding it up to the candlelight.

“My, _stealing_ are we?”

“Really, I don’t think she’ll miss it much. Anyway, _this_ is not only expensive, but also telling. It’s from a gift shop in the 5th, one of several in her jewelry box.”

“Recognize it that well, huh?”

“What that _means,_ is that she’s probably had a string of lovers who gave her these, all hidden from her husband--although I have no doubt he knew perfectly well.”

Kieran hummed, baring his teeth in a grimace.

“It would make sense that they were going bankrupt for _her--_ ” she twirled the necklace in her fingers, the golden chain dripping like water in her lithe palm, “--but I don’t know how she was losing money for someone _else_.”

“Did she have money of her own?”

She nodded. “The Admiral told me she’d had a considerable inheritance from her father, and that it went to him when she died, according to her will.”

“Ah...doesn’t that put him in rather an uncomfortable position, then?”

“Indeed.” She sighed. “Unfortunate, this. He’s already had so much trouble—“

Kieran nodded. “I do feel bad.” He turned back to the board, pressing his fingers to the cork. “We also have Mr. and Mrs. Rethburn to take into account. They both have significant motive for obvious reasons--although the Missus more so.”

“Patrick found the body. It’s also possible that—”

“Yes. But Aria also went off in the same direction that he’d been insisting on the night before.” He remembered her dress trailing behind her, the sly look in her fox-like face as she walked towards the cove. “It’s possible that they’d met there last night, and she’d dismissed him with a promise to meet again the following morning.”

Lauren nodded. “That is true.” Then, groaning a little, she crossed her arms. “There’s so _much.”_

Kieran sighed. “We’re going to have to take it slowly, one step at a time.” He turned to her. “You’ve seen how the police here work. Nothing ever happens here--so they’re a little bit too uncautious. They let me go down to the port easy enough--really ironic, considering--”

He broke off, and a tense silence filled the tiny closet. Lauren spoke, her voice tiny and hushed. 

“I...managed to disassociate the Hyacinth from the equation. They asked, and I told them what I knew.”

“What did you say?” And his voice was equally as quiet, a mere wisp in the night. 

“I told them we know the current whereabouts of the Purple Hyacinth, and that the method used for killing was so unlike him that it wasn’t possible it was.”

He turned to his wife, and couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped his lips. _“Could you stop talking about him as if he’s not me?”_

Lauren smiled for a moment in remembrance, and they were caught in that simple moment, a reflection on the past. Then, the worry returned. 

“You know...it was almost funny. I found myself saying the absolute truth.” She looked up at him through her lashes, the candlelight caught in them like fragments of stars, offsetting the golden pierce to her eyes. “The methods were wrong. You wouldn’t do it like that—it—it was so _hilarious,_ that—I knew it wasn’t you the moment I laid eyes on the body because I _knew_ how you did things. And you didn’t do anything like—”

She pauses, and then continues, unaware of the look on her husband’s face: a mixture of adoration and unease, caught up together in his features like two lovers of the same name.

“It’s so morbidly hilarious isn’t it?” She levels her gaze with his. “I knew it wasn’t the Purple Hyacinth because I knew that the man I loved didn’t operate like that.” She smiled. “I found I wanted to say _that_ to them instead—and wouldn’t it be the truth?”

He walks over to her, placing both hands on the table behind her, nose touching nose. He kissed her forehead lightly and pressed it against his.

_“Thank you.”_

She smiles, soft and warm, twirling a piece of his hair, done up low in a little ponytail, around her finger. “Think nothing of it, dear.”

Then, leaning back, Kieran sighs. “We have a lot of work to do, don’t we?”

Lauren nodded. “I think I’ll continue to assist in questioning. You see what you can find elsewhere around here, seeing as they won’t let you out again; or me, for that matter.” She toyed with the daisy in her hair. “You’re an everyman, and you act well—use that to your advantage. _And be subtle about it, please.”_

He scrunched up his face. “When am I ever not subtle, _mon coeur?”_

She sighed good-naturedly. “ _Ego_ tism, dearest. Watch it.”

Silence stretched for a few moments, the inky black of the closet marked only by the flickering of the candle, the soft scent of mint and lavender spreading through the small room. Then, Kieran turned from the board at the sound of his wife chuckling slightly, her eyes lit up with silent and expressive mirth.

“What?”

She shook her head slightly, then opened her eyes slowly and turned to him. “It’s— _ha!”_ She lifted her chin, drawing a delicate hand up to her mouth to hide a burgeoning smile. Kieran cocked his head curiously, and she waved her fingers at him.

“It’s just— _I’m having fun!”_

He blinked, and then let loose a peal of laughter to match hers, throwing his head back, blue eyes shining like stars. “Is _that so?”_

_“Yes!_ I—we haven’t done this in, what—ten years? And here I am—” she smiled again, striding over to him and throwing her arms around his neck, a wanton gesture of happiness—”I’m having _fun,_ isn’t that devilish?”

Kieran smiled, fingering the strings on her nightgown absently, looking down at his wife—his partner in crime. Then, he lifted her chin to his, pressing his lips to hers in silent ardor. Her lashes brushed his cheek delicately, and she melted into his embrace. He released her, hands drawing around her waist, and, drawing closer to nip at her earlobe, he whispered softly in her ear.

_“I’m having fun, too.”_

The candle snuffed out, leaving the pair to themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy! Here we go. 
> 
> \- I had this chapter drafted for a while but it was kicking me in the butt for some reason so I edited it as much as I could,, please accept this subpar meal ;v;
> 
> \- “Uxorious, isn’t he?” = me legitimately using the technical term for simp to call Kieran out in canon. How meta of me. I am delighted at the fandom’s acceptance of simp Kieran with open arms and I will continue to unabashedly write him as such. 
> 
> \- Don’t know if anyone has noticed this: I imagine Ardhalis to be kinda like Quebec, in a way; French and English are both spoken, but in more commercialized and industrialized areas like Montreal, and the area surrounding, English is more pervasive (though French is still used). Places farther from commercialization use more French. I try my hardest to show this through the dialogue--Captain Andres and the police department, Mr. Desmond and his daughter, even Rosa and Ken to an extent, all have much more French in their speech than Lauren and Kieran, or the nobles, because the former two are from the Southern Coast, and Rosa and Ken grew up outside the capital. It’s subtle, and I don’t know if anyone’s picked up on it, but I like doing it so there :)
> 
> \- I think the ghost of Jane Austen possessed me when I was writing the last part of Lauren’s bit, because the dialogue started sounding like 19th century courtship barbs (lmao)
> 
> \- Purple carnations: capriciousness, changeable, unreliability. Narcissi: unrequited love, selfishness. Mint: suspicion. Lavender: devotion, peace; also distrust.
> 
> \- Typically the page breaks have signified changing character perspective; this still holds, but Lune bits will now never be expressly Lauren or Kieran perspective, but rather a coalition of both; I felt this was crucial now that LUNE IS BACK IN BUSINESS, BABY >:)
> 
> Much love as always <3 comments/kudos fuel me and are cheesecake slices <3
> 
> Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com
> 
> -thumbipeach


	9. Hark, a Hyacinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have any theories, Mr. Sinclair-White? Of your own?”

_A boy stands underneath a chandelier._

_It sparkles harshly, the intricate beading and crystals catching the light and throwing it down upon the tiled floor like embers from an open flame. It twists, crying out as the gemstones scrape and chime._

_He’s planted the hyacinth, just how he was taught to handle flowers. Gently, with care; the blood is its soil, and the light from the chandelier is its sun, its energy. Pack it in, scoop the dirt with love and let the flower take root, and that is how more will grow._

_The light is obstructed by a thread. It is thin and small, a thing of spider’s-web gossamer, and just as strong, sure and decisive._

_It hangs a neck._

_Suddenly, and without warning, the body drops away from the suspended head, severed, falling, falling onto the blood-smeared tile with horrific convulsions, splattering crimson everywhere, everywhere, and the boy screams and screams and screams--_

Kieran jolts awake, legs tangled in oppressive and sweaty sheets. 

He leaps upward silently, nary but a haggard breath on his knotted tongue. He doesn’t register the quiet of the hotel room, the dawn beginning to break; all he can see, feel, hear, is the sound of the body hitting the ground, split from the neck it was tied to, abrupt, coarse, barren.

He grasps at the comforters, trying in vain to stave off the pangs of dread seeping into his heart like it were a washcloth soaking up bloodstains, crawling and wetting the cloth with sticky jam. It doesn’t help--it still comes, as it always will.

His wife hasn’t stirred from beside him--fast asleep underneath soft pools of down, bare skin peeking out from where the covers are bunched at her chest. He sighs, the stifled huff through his nose doing nothing to abate the surging adrenaline from the nightmare, the feeling of dread he feels whenever he has to walk that room again.

He moves to lay a hand on her shoulder, longing for the warm life underneath his palm, but then retracts it. It’s not often she gets to sleep like this; he shouldn’t disturb her with his troubles.

He couldn’t do that to her.

He strides across the room, unlatching the golden chain that holds the balcony window closed and moving out onto it once more, the fresh trails of the ocean’s air calming him, if only a little. He grips the rail and bends, back bowing underneath the strain of his past self, the raw scrapes of his screams and the lingering sound of the body thudding to the floor.

It was a recurring thing, that dream--it would appear unbidden, in his happiest times, as if to remind him that he’d never be let out of that room, he’d never be allowed to leave his sickbed, hyacinths, hyacinths everywhere, their scent and their cacophonous voices drowning out everything else he’s managed to built.

He sighs, pressing his fingers harshly against his temples. Once again, he’s managed to drown himself. Tilting his head, he lets the scent of the peonies wash over him, the sound of the hanging planter a constant pendulum, a rocking that soothes like a chair would. 

Then, his attention is drawn to slight movement coming from below. He looks down to see that someone else had chosen to grace the morning at the early hour.

He hadn’t seen Mrs. Briarton much except for that first morning. But he’d taken note anyways of the tawny straw-blonde mop of hair, the hard set in her shoulders, her taut expression in an otherwise youthful face. It was that woman who was now striding decisively down to the pier, the stray cloth from a circular embroidery hoop billowing in the soft wind coming from the shore.

Kieran frowned in consideration, then smiled a little. _Here_ was an opportunity, now.

With a nod and a click of his teeth, he resolved to keep his eyes forward, on the task at hand. He can suffocate later, later when it is only him and his vices dangling from a grape vine of gemstones.

He enters the room again and sets about preparing himself, combing fingers through his hair and setting down clothes in their proper places. He hears faint shuffling from the bed and looks back, smiling a little to himself as he picks a daisy from the bunch he’d bought yesterday evening. Writing a note on the desk and twining the parchment with the stem of the little flower, he places it where her hand rests, curled in an easy, relaxed manner, brushing her hair back from her face affectionately. 

_Good luck,_ he does not need to say. She acknowledges it the way she murmurs distractedly and shifts into his touch, and the warm smile he tries to suppress chases away the lingering dread.

He dons an unassuming attire: black trousers, white undershirt, a thing made of cotton that hung loosely around his frame, but not so much as to resemble the things he used to wear, when he was accustomed to being decked in blood and regret by the end of the night. 

Thumbing the buttons until he reaches the high collar, grazing his neck, he stops and regards himself in the mirror, a wide thing decked around in silver edelweiss, the burgeoning flowers marking the corners and reflecting the creeping daylight.

He doesn’t understand what he sees, doesn’t know the man staring back much at all.

He huffs in exasperation, his bangs falling from his bun and over his eyes as he shakes his head, and unbuttons the first two milky pearls from his collar.

Then, checking that everything is in order, he leaves, making his way down to the embankment.

It’s an eerily calm morning, the breeze blowing the stray rhododendron blossoms off their stems. They hadn’t bothered to change them--not since the police descended like flies upon the chateau and uprooted everything in pursuit of whoever killed that mysterious woman, the one who beguiled and charmed and was hated by all. 

Kieran finds himself creeping into the bar, longing for something to filter the exhaustion out of his bones, and comes face to face with a harried-looking Angelina. She jumps when she sees him enter, and he supposes he does look something awful, supposes that the bags under his eyes do nothing but abet the cast of the daylight behind him, shrouding him in a dichotomy of shadows.

_“Monsieur Sinclair-White.”_ Angelina curtsies, leaning her elbows against the bar table nervously. Kieran smooths his face, smiling politely. 

“You’re up early.”

“So are you, _Madame.”_ He walks over and places a palm flat on the table, five pence in his fingers. “Think you can get me—?”

She understands, knowing that all he’d ever taken so far was a strong espresso. “Ouais. _Bien sur.”_ And with an unsure bite of her lip, she gets out a mug and begins to prepare the drink. Silence drowns the bar uncomfortably, tense words unsaid collecting like dewdrops on cobwebs.

“How are you taking it, _Madame?”_ Kieran asks softly, concernedly. Angelina stiffens, pushing the lever for the espresso a little too harshly.

**“Perfectly fine,** **_Monsieur.”_**

Kieran frowns. “I don’t—”

“It’s hard for me to talk about it.” Her voice is hard and small at the same time, a contrast as stark as black and white.

Kieran nods. She goes on, almost as if the words were being tugged out of her, unwillingly.

“I didn’t think—I mean, my father told me that things in the capital were always bad.” She fumbled with a cloth, the light green thread snapping slightly. “But it’s the _capital._ I never dreamed—“

_“—That it would happen here.”_ He finished, drawing a finger across his chin. She nodded miserably.

“Does that make me naïve?”

Kieran considered her for a moment. She was young; perhaps barely out of her teenage years, and her face displayed a certain unsurety, one that all young people showed at some point, indefinitely. He supposes he looked like that, once.

_The body falls, splattering blood like paint—_

Kieran sighed. “I don’t think it’s naïve to expect good things to happen to you, if that is what you mean.”

Angelina nodded. “I know-- _mais,_ I can’t help but think…” she looked down at her feet. “Maybe Father was right. I’m not ready to--” she drew her head up harshly, her voice choked with some emotion. “I don’t think I’m ready to travel outside of here, then.”

Kieran frowned. Suddenly, as if coming to the acute realization that she was saying too much to a person she didn’t know terribly well, she started. 

“ _Désolé,_ I’m-- _Monsieur,_ I apologize, I shouldn’t--”

He waved a hand to placate the girl who was now wringing her hands in regret. “It’s alright, Ms. Desmond. I appreciate your insight.”

The squeal of the kettle shattered the glass wall, and they both retreated into themselves once again. Taking the hot coffee mug in his fingers, Kieran wrapped both of his hands around it, letting the new blistering heat seep into his palms. Angelina’s hands fluttered around her sleeves nervously, then she bowed and stood, spine straight.

“I do hope--I mean, your wife is--”

Kieran nodded, lips curving softly at the mention of Lauren. “Yes. She is. She’ll help you out, Ms. Desmond. She and the police.”

Angelina smiled, too. “You have a lot of faith in her.”

Kieran couldn’t help the wide grin that overtook his face. It was the first of the day that felt genuine, and it was like coming home, slipping into a familiar skin. “Of course I do.”

Angelina nodded. Kieran swiveled in his chair, extracting himself from the bar with practiced grace, his legs falling into place naturally as he strode out of the room. 

“If you’ll excuse me, now, _Madame--”_

She nodded and waved a tiny palm at him. “Have a wonderful day, _Monsieur.”_

_“I will.”_ He called back, already out in the blistering sun. _“I have another fish to fry.”_ He muttered under his breath, disguising it with a sip of the bitter cream in his mug.

Mrs. Briarton was not difficult to find. She was the only one out on the embankment that wasn’t a stray police officer, whose half-masks made them easily distinguishable. She was ensconced in a chair by the rocks, blue dress bunched up as she sat, working away with a needle. She didn’t hear him approach; not many would, even when he wasn’t trying.

“Mind if I join you, _Madame?”_

She started, turning to regard him first with fear, then surprise, then apprehension, the emotions flickering blatantly across her face like a roll of film, rapid and very, very clear. 

“Why would you want to?” Her voice was harsh, suspicious. Kieran shrugged, a smooth movement of his shoulders. 

“We’re both out here, no?”

She raised a terse eyebrow, then sighed and turned back to her needlepoint. 

“I don’t see why not.” 

He grabbed a chair, placing it a few feet apart from her and settling into it, crossing his legs and leaning back. He looked for all the world like a man at ease, a man with no worries.

“You’re up early.”

“So are you.” She didn’t let up, stabbing the needle into the hoop with practiced aggression. He eyed her keenly.

“I couldn’t sleep very well.”

She pursed her lips. “It seems that’s common for you.”

Kieran raised an eyebrow. So _that_ was how it was going to go. Well then.

_You’re an everyman--just see what you can do._

He played into it, letting the slightest amount of irritation filter into his voice. “What do you mean?”

She gave him a terse glance out the corner of her eye. “I’m sure you know, Mr. Sinclair-White.”

He sighed. “Do people think--”

”Oh, people think _lots_ of things.” She paused, leaning forward in her seat. He could see that she was in fact very young, younger than he, but her face was hardened, old. He kept his face smooth, level, impassive.

“Such as?”

She pressed further still. “Well, you were the last one to see Mrs. Challenger alive, isn’t that so?”

He raises an eyebrow, and then nods in seeming defeat. “That _is_ true, unfortunately.”

“Well, then.” And she raises her head, a regal thing of straw-blonde, almost white, dripping blindingly over her harsh face. “ _That’s_ enough cause for a talk, no?”

“Ah, gossip.” He shrugs. “People can think what they like. I know what I did and didn’t do.”

“So you weren’t meeting her? You deny it?”

He turns to her, levels her with a stare that must be rather scathing, because she shrinks back like a cat doused in water. “I _do_ deny it. Would you take my word for it?”

“Well--you’re a handsome, young, _married_ man--”

“Why _thank_ you, I’ll take those as compliments--”

“And that seemed to be _exactly_ the type that that woman liked to go after.” She gripped the brown handle of her hoop tighter, squaring her jaw. “ _So.”_ She looked up at him, studying his expression, seeing if anything had changed. It had not; his face was still a blank slate. He closed his eyes in defeat. 

“I know what I did and didn’t do--and it certainly wasn’t what you’re thinking, _Madame.”_ He turned to her, leveling her with a searching glance. 

“What _are_ you thinking, really?”

She regards him for a few moments, needle poised over the half-finished embroidery. Then she looks down again.

“I’m not sure. You don’t seem that way--”

He laughs. “What way?”

“Like you’d--” she worries her lip between her teeth, looking out to the seashore, where officers are cordoning off the entrance to the cove and talking amongst themselves. “--do something like--”

He sighs. “I’m not particularly concerned with the general opinion about me here. Again--I know what I did and didn’t do.” He turned to her. “I do hope that’s apparent.”

She frowned. Then, her shoulders relaxed a bit, and her face became a little easier. 

“Well. You’re not defensive, at least.”

He raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it go. Looking back out to sea, he felt the wave of salty air crash over his face, releasing the anxiety he’d allowed to build up there once more.

Silence stretched over the two of them like cloth pulled to strain. Mrs. Briarton continued to thread delicate green strands into the hoop, looping once, twice, three times over each other, making a simple leaf for the adjacent threaded morning glory. Then, she spoke again.

“You have any theories, Mr. Sinclair-White? Of your own?

He frowned. “Please,” he waved a hand, “Kieran. ‘Mr. Sinclair-White’ is rather a mouthful, no?”

She looked at him. “I guess it is. Is that why your wife goes by Chief Sinclair?”

He smiled. “Yes, I suppose that’s why. Your husband informed you, then?”

She pursed her lips again, nodding slightly. “If he hadn’t I would have found out anyway.” She twirled the needle absently. “Word travels fast here.”

“Aren’t I aware of that.”

Silence once again. Then:

“I think I’ve bought one of your paintings before.”

He wasn’t expecting _that._

He starts, nearly dropping his coffee mug onto the pebbled embankment. She turns at his shocked expression, thinning her lips and shaking her head slightly.

“I didn’t put two and two together at first. But...you’re an art professor back in the city, correct?”

He nods, still at a loss for words. She continues on, another leaf beginning to take shape under her skilled fingers.

“I remember a while back...XX33, maybe? I was at an auction somewhere outside the 2nd precinct.” She looks up in reminiscence. “I bought that painting--it was of the main square in the morning--on a relative impulse. I remember my husband was quite upset with me for it.”

And to his immense surprise, she smiled. It was the first time he’d seen her do it, but there it was—a small thing, a turn of the corners of her usually tense lips. She looked at him with polite respect, regarded him with a gaze that was not cold, but rather one of appeal, of quiet acceptance.

“I always liked that painting. It captures a lot of emotion, I think. And I never really knew who made it.” She turned back out to the ocean, her needle paused on the blue thread of another morning glory. “The only thing I had to go off of were the initials on the corner.”

_KSW. He never used to sign his work before._

He nods. “I think I remember…” He smiled ruefully. “I painted that a couple of years after my marriage.”

It’d been a day off for him; he’d sat in the square, out in the open, where he’d been so used to flitting through the shadows cast by the awnings and his own sins, and had laid down colors with ease: yellows, oranges, creams, painting the doves that came to collect the breadcrumbs and the shine of the sun as it gleamed off the stone and cobble. He remembered the peace, the immersion, of outlining a scene without having to analyze it for trouble, for ulterior motives.

“It’s beautiful.” She nods in acknowledgement, and he flushes a little at the compliment. “I’m glad I got to meet you to tell you that in person.”

He nods, finding his voice finally. “Thank you, Mrs. Briarton. It’s an honor to hear.”

“Please. Call me Ilse.” She punctured the embroidery hoop once more. “If we’re being more casual, now.”

Then, she stopped her work, and leaned forward again. “You never answered my question.”

He pressed forward too with slight alacrity, and she shrunk back a little bit at the probing look in his sharp eyes.

“Well, _Ilse._ You weren’t at the discovery of the body.”

She shook her head. “I was with Mrs. Rethburn--Tina. She’d gotten her clothes wet and wanted to shake them out, and I just so happened--”

She stopped, and regarded him with a new ferocity that chased out the previous warmth in her face. “Are you implying--?”

“No! Of course not.” He shook his head violently, and took a casual sip of his coffee. It was almost over, the bitter grounds resting at the bottom permeating the liquid with a sharp sting. “I’m merely asking.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this your wife’s job? To do all this questioning?”

Kieran challenged her. “Yes. It is--I didn’t mean to be intrusive--but I’m simply curious.” He leaned forward, as if he was sharing a secret with her, his stance easy and graceful. “You asked me who I suspect. Isn’t it natural of me to suspect the person who _hated_ the victim the most, hm?”

She gasped, and for a moment her face was pained. She looked uncomfortable, shocked even, but there was something else in her gaze, something that Kieran couldn’t place, something--

“Oh! That’s _horrible. Tina?_ **I’m sure she wouldn’t--”**

“Jealousy is a strong emotion, Ilse.” Kieran cocked an eyebrow.

Ilse grimaced, and there it was again--a pang of recognition, almost. Like she knew full well what he was talking about. 

“Listen to me--I’m sure that’s not true. I-- **she was with me the whole time, I’m sure she had no time to--”**

Kieran waved his hands in a placating gesture. “No, no. **I’m sure she doesn’t have the temperament for it.** It’s just a little hunch I have.”

Didn’t she? Lauren had told him that night how her eyes had flashed, scathing and searching, like a harpy. It was entirely possible that she’d been overcome by jealousy and decided to do it--to kill with immediate ferocity. 

But that certainly didn’t explain the cunning, the thought that had come into placing the body to frame it as though it's been committed way sooner than it was. And it didn’t explain the hyacinth--

_The hyacinth._

His blood chilled in an instant, despite the hot Southern air coming in as the morning progressed, and he found himself back in that chamber, the darkness and the slivers of light like blades across his skin, reflecting over a corpse, that corpse falling with a deafening thud on a pile of blood and lavender--

He let out a low, imperceptible growl, and bit his tongue to stifle it. It wouldn’t do him any good, not now--

Mrs. Briarton shot him a look. “You’re--”

“Quite alright. I apologize. **Lack of sleep, you know.”** He adopted a sheepish look, and Ilse considered him for a few moments before nodding in agreement.

  
“Yes. I can never sleep much either, not in new places. I just come out here to--” and she held up her needlework, little embroidered blossoms and leaves beginning to make themselves apparent on the white cloth. “--take my mind off of things.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing to the effect. Draining the last of his coffee from the mug, he set it down decisively. 

Ilse bit her lip. “I’m sorry that this--I mean--” She looked at him appealingly. “None of this is official, right? I mean, your wife—?

He shook his head. “ **My wife’s official business is her own. She usually doesn’t tell me anything about it.”** He smiled, and then put a finger up to his lips. “What we said will stay here.”

She nodded. “Good. I don’t want to get too involved with this mess.” She scoffed. “You expect to come down here for some peace and quiet and then you get _this--”_

Kieran nodded in genuine agreement. “Yes, I know.”

“I mean, we all thought business with the Scythe was _over_ after Lune--but I guess that isn’t really true, is it? People everywhere are monsters, I see, not just-- _oh!_ It’s--your wife.”

He turned to see that yes, it was his wife who was coming down the embankment. She was jogging lightly, clad in a simple blue dress stitched loosely around her shoulders and waist, one that swayed amiably around her ankles, her hair caught up in a bun. He couldn’t help but smile when he noticed the single daisy peeking out from behind the strands of red. 

She came up behind them, and she bowed politely to her husband’s company.

“ _Madame._ Good morning.” 

Mrs. Briarton gave a little nod in response, and then Lauren turned to Kieran, snaking a stray arm around his shoulders. 

“Good morning, _mon amour._ What’s got you in a hurry?” Kieran smiled, catching her gaze with a sharp, keen look. She smiled disarmingly, her voice deceptively sweet and poised, slightly breathless.

“They want you, dearest.” 

He frowned. “For?”

A little flicker came across her face, one that he caught but did not make a show of acknowledging. She curled her hand to his bicep, and he understood.

“For questioning.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re a primary witness, after all.”

_And suspect,_ she did not say. Kieran sighed. “Of course, _mon bien-aimé._ I’ll come with you.” 

He turned to his company, appearing apologetic. “I’m so sorry to leave you like this--”

Mrs. Briarton waved a terse hand. “No worries.” She regarded the both of them, but addressed Lauren with her next comment.

“I wish you luck in your investigation, Chief Sinclair.”

Lauren gave her a tense, thin smile. “You forget, I’m not really the one--”

“ _Oh,_ but you’ll certainly get things done faster, I’m sure.” She waved a hand, needle trailing with light blue thread. “The police here are less than efficient, that is certain.” She gestured out to the entrance to the cove, where officers were fumbling with yellow tape, stringing it across the rocks.

Lauren hummed, then turned on her heel and began to make her way back to the chateau, beckoning for Kieran to follow. He bid goodbye to his impromptu morning companion, who had turned back to her work, bringing another morning glory to life on the hoop, this one a dull orange. 

Then, he jogged a little to catch up with his wife, looping a discreet arm in hers.

She immediately dropped the act, leaning into him to whisper. _“So? What--”_

_“I’ll tell you at night.”_ He matched her pitch, his voice brushing delicately over her ear. She frowned.

_“You know, she lied when she said Mrs. Rethburn was with her the whole time.”_

Kieran nodded. “I mean--I didn’t know for sure--but I’d suspected as much.” He turned to his wife. “What do you think--?”

She placed a hand on his arm to stop him. _“I’ll tell you at night,”_ she repeated with some amusement, looking up at him from underneath her lashes. He grinned, all teeth and secrets, then held her hand as they passed underneath the awning, up the steps to the main doors. 

She stopped him, looking around before leaning in, grasping his arms in her hands in an almost desperate gesture. “Look...when they question you, don’t get nervous. You know and I know. That’s that.” She looked decisive, her gaze hard. He knew deep down what she was afraid of, and his treacherous heart swelled a little at her worry. He kissed her nose lightly and smirked.

“Come _on, mon coeur._ You know me--I’ll be ok.”

“Just don’t stick your _foot_ in your mouth, is all,” she cautioned, drawing back and nodding her head. He scoffed.

“You _know--”_

_“_ I _do_ know.” She smiled, and reached up a little to take the daisy out of her hair. It caught in her bun, strands tumbling down and brushing the shoulder of her dress. She pressed it to him, and he took her hands in his.

_“Be careful.”_

He nodded, taking the daisy up to his lips and kissing it lightly, then tucking it to his collar. “I will.” He paused, considering. 

“Will you be with me?”

She shook her head. “I’m supposed to take on Mrs. Fairson. She’s--” she grimaced, and it made him chuckle to see the apparent displeasure on her face. “--rather hysterical. So they asked me--”

“Ah. Because you’re--”

She smiled and cocked her hip, light dancing in her eyes. _“I’m competent.”_

He bowed, mockingly, taking her hand in his. “That I have no doubt of, darling.”

They pushed open the door, making their way inside. Light was beginning to filter through the lobby windows, blanketing the stiff hotel in soft morning calm. He passed the desk, his eyes catching on the offending pot of hyacinths, still in its place where Angelina had put it. All eleven--

_Wait._

He stopped dead, his gaze still locked on the bunch of purple blossoms. Lauren, who’d been preparing to move down the hallway to the other side of the hotel, where the Fairson’s room was, stopped and turned when she noticed him standing, frozen.

“Kieran?”

He caught up to her, drawing her close to him with a tug on her arm. He pointed at the pot. 

_“Lauren._ When--that night. When you came to meet me--you came through the lobby, yes?”

She looked confused, staring in shock. _“Yes,_ Kieran, why--?”  
  


  
“How many hyacinths were in that pot?”

She frowned, first in bemusement and then in recollection as she humored him. “Ah...eleven? I think--I checked--”

When she turned her face back up to his, it was grave, set with pale white. 

“Did you check when we came here first?”

She frowned. “I don’t--”

“There’s supposed to be twelve. For all the years of the Aevasther’s reign, remember? They always do it.”

She stopped cold, swiveling her head to count the purple blossoms. They both looked at each other.

_We’ll talk at night._

———

Mrs. Fairson was, as expected, proving to be a bit of a problem.

She was laid out artistically on the settee in her chambers, extravagant yellow lace flowing down her collapsed form in clusters. As always, she had no idea how to dress, and, as always, it was causing her face to be rather difficult to see from where Lauren was sitting.

She’d been in the room for upwards of three hours, a constable at her right and a pen and paper in hand, and hadn’t gotten a single constructive thing out of the woman other than hysterical tears and confirmations that _Aria Challenger is dead._

Which didn't help her in the slightest. 

Her husband had taken up permanent residence at the window, their room possessing a rather sweeping view of the cliffs, and had been grumbling intermittently to accompany his wife’s sniffles and dramatic cries. Occasionally, he’d turned to his wife with a baleful look and grimaced, before swiveling back to look out at the rocks beyond.

Finally, after what seemed like years upon years, she sat up, nearly knocking the glass of brandy off the side table and leaving Lauren to dodge the massive assault of tulle now piled up high like stacks of feathers.

_“Oh,_ Chief. It’s simply _awful, what--oh--!”_ She buried her face in her hands, smearing mascara down her cheeks. Lauren found herself dully recalling another sunlit evening, a live bird in its cage and a pile of skirts hanging off the then-Lieutenant's struggling form. She couldn’t help a little smile, indulging for a moment before setting her face back to one of polite impatience.

_“Madame._ I’m sorry--I know it’s hard,” her voice was soft, surprisingly and impressively patient after hours of dealing with a wailing woman, “but if you really want it all to be over, it would be appreciated if you could tell us precisely what you saw that day.” 

The constable made to cut in, but Lauren waved a hand impatiently at him, and he closed his eyes and bowed before retreating tactfully. 

_I wish Kieran was here._

The thought came to her unbidden, hitting her with a force, and she nearly smiled with it. Having him here with her to question the woman would have made it so much more bearable, and possibly even easier.

_No; he couldn’t threaten her with a knife, now._

Mrs. Fairson raised her head from her hands, regarding her with some apprehension. She reached for a tissue, and blew into it with a loud sniffle.

Mr. Fairson had apparently had enough. He rounded on the people in the room, addressing his wife harshly. 

“Petunia, would you _get over yourself?! Just tell the woman what she wants--”_

_“_ Oh you are so _insensitive!”_ She burst out, clutching the arms of the loveseat. “Always! I should have never--”

“You always try to make it about yourself! This isn’t one of your little cinema films! Just _tell_ them--”

“Otis I absolutely _loathe_ you--”

_“Could everyone be quiet?”_ Lauren’s voice cut in, hard and as sharp as a tack. It was quiet, low like a deathly viper, but it still caught the attention of all present, silencing the room. She crossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair, her heels scraping the carpet as she gracefully appealed to Mrs. Fairson.

“I will _not_ tolerate a lover’s quarrel here. It is not the time, or the place.” She eyed the couple with keen and exasperated disinterest. “Mrs. Fairson. I need to know the particulars, that is all. _Please, kindly get to it.”_

  
Mrs. Fairson appeared rather stunned that she was being spoken to this way, but sat back with a defeated huff. Mr. Fairson looked at her in admiration, but she merely raised an eyebrow and looked again towards her target, wishing silently that she could throttle her, take her by her canary yellow hem and shake her, force some _damned_ speech out of the woman. 

_Tch. Cops and their rules._

Mrs. Fairson began. She spoke on how she’d walked down the pathway, joined Mr. Rethburn, and came across Aria’s body, lying there. Mr. Rethburn had turned the body over while she’d hovered from a distance, too paralyzed to move towards the woman seeping blood onto the rock. Then, he’d yelled for her to go and get help, and had begun to fiddle around with her blouse, opening it to get access to her chest. 

Lauren frowned. “Had she been shot?”

Mrs. Fairson looked rather horrified. “I—I _don’t—_ I didn’t—”

Lauren sighed. “Was there blood? Much of it?”

Mrs. Fairson looked up in consideration. “I’d--not really noticed. But she was quite dead! I know, I saw--”

Lauren sighed. So there was no way to confirm when she’d been shot until she consulted with Captain Andrés about Mr. Rethburn’s testimony. 

“And did you notice anything odd around the body? A revolver, perhaps, or--”

“I--I don’t _know,_ I’m sorry.” Mrs. Fairson whimpered, looking thoroughly miserable. Lauren rubbed her temples in frustration.

_She_ really _wished Kieran was here._

“And you saw that it was Aria--and Patrick sent--”

“Sent me back to get help, yes.”

“I see.” She sighed. “Anything else you’d like to say before we leave you?”

Mr. Fairson piped up from behind them, voice hesitant, like he was walking on eggshells to avoid being berated again. “Will--when will we be allowed to leave? Do you--are you--”

Lauren held up a hand. “Certainly _not_ until this business is solved, or at least thoroughly investigated.” 

Mr. Fairson cursed a little underneath his breath and turned back to the window. Lauren raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing else to the effect.

“Then, _Madame, Monsieur--_ that is all for today.” She regarded Mrs. Fairson steadily. “Get some rest, then.”

Walking out of the room and down the hallway, she met the Captain in the lobby. He looked rather tense, standing with his arms cross and dictating to a haggard-looking Constable Avery. When he spotted her, his face lightened a little.

“ _Anything, Madame_ Sinclair?”

Lauren shook her head a little. “No. She wasn’t very constructive, I’m afraid.” She frowned. “I got the basics out of her--but she didn’t notice anything particularly helpful.”

The Captain sighed. “I understand. I’m sorry to--”

“ _Non, pas du probleme.”_ She waved a delicate hand, brushing her skirts down thoughtfully. “Anything on your end, _Monsieur Capitaine?”_

He sighed again, heaving roughly and scoffing. “Not too much, I’m afraid. He’s rather clammy--shaken up.”

“Did you ask him about the whole--affair? Did he confirm--?”

The Captain nodded. “He did. But it was funny--he posited that--” and he laughed a little, a chuckle rising from his silver whiskers--” _eh bien_ , he seemed almost put out! Kept claiming that he loved his wife and didn’t ever want to hurt her--and you know, it seemed real enough!” He turned to Lauren.

“He’s a real salt-of-the-earth man. I can’t imagine--but I suppose those are the people that do these types of things, no?” He gestured towards her, almost as if in example. “I mean--your capital murderers, am I right?” He finished with a nervous chuckle.

  
Lauren shivered a little, resisting the urge to glance back at the cluster of hyacinths behind them. 

“And what of his testimony?”

“Ah--says the exact same thing as her, I’d expect. Walked to the Fae’s Cove--admittedly, to meet with her--came across her body. She’d been strangled and shot, he says--yelled for _Madame_ to get help. Tried to resuscitate--in vain. That was why he was covered in blood up to his elbows.” He shook his head, and Lauren nodded assent.

Pity she could have been there--to tell what was really the truth and what wasn’t

  
But as she climbed the steps to her and Kieran’s room, another thought came into her mind:

_That was what_ they _were there for._

———

“So?”

“Well--the _hyacinth--”  
  
_

 _“Yes._ So we can confirm something very distinct from that--the murderer _had_ to pass through the lobby before--well, before I came through there.”

They were in the closet once again, candle flickering and casting shadows over both their faces. They leant against the table in the back, Lauren’s hand brushing absently over a peony petal that had blown in from the open balcony. Kieran’s face was grave.

“This also implies that _anybody_ in the hotel could have done it--once again--which doesn’t help us in the slightest.”

Lauren nodded, then heaved a slight sigh, teasing the knot on her nightgown in an absent gesture. “It’s really a pity I can’t be in more places at once.” She threw up her arms, white silk slipping down her wrists. “I wish I could just--line them up and ask them all directly!”

Kieran chuckled lowly. “I assume questioning that woman was a massive--”

“Oh a pain in the _ass!_ You know--” she stopped and smiled--”I wished you were there. Could’ve gotten to her with a knife to her fingers.”

Kieran’s eyes glinted, the candlelight catching the sparks of blue. “ _Really, officer!_ Aren’t you cruel!” But he was smiling affectionately.

Lauren turned back to the board. “Well, we know more, at least--from your findings and from mine.” She glanced over at him. “Mind telling me about this morning, dear?”

Kieran shrugged. “I went out and she was there--talked a bit.” He turned to his wife. “She--she told me she bought one of my paintings, years ago. Took me by surprise, that did.”

Lauren looked surprised as well. “Really! What--”

“It was the one of the town square. Really, I’d forgotten I’d even put that one up.” He looked down reminiscently. Lauren smiled and crossed her arms, looking at her husband with soft affection. 

“But anyhow--I told her I suspected Mrs. Rethburn--” Lauren scoffed, and he waved a hand, “--don’t worry about it--I did it because she was with her when the body was discovered, I’d remembered--”

“And she lied about her alibi.” Lauren frowned. “Doesn’t that give her--”

“Well, we don’t really know, now.” Kieran rose, striding to the board and hooking a finger in a thread of red yarn. “It could be anything. But we’re going to have to get that information out of either her or Mrs. Rethburn, anyhow.” He turned back to his wife, regarding her with a question. 

“You’re questioning her tomorrow, correct?”

She nodded, twisting her sleeves in an absent tic. “Yes. I’ll make sure of it.”

He nodded, then looked down once more, face suddenly seized with a spasm of regret. He grimaced. “Those hyacinths--if I hadn’t gone and--”

“If you’re going to start blaming yourself again I _won’t_ have it, Kieran.” Lauren cut into his miseries, dismissing the apprehension with a scoff and a wave of her hand. “ _Some_ body saw it and decided to be theatrical. It’s not your fault.”

He wrung his hands, white sleeves constricting around taut wrists. “But it _is,_ isn’t it--”

“Kieran,” she interrupted once more, voice now mournful, searching, “don’t think I didn’t notice this morning.”

He paused and looked back at her, and his face held no emotion, eyes dull and empty. 

She hated it--she did. 

She strode over to him, holding a reluctant palm up in a silent question. He stared down at it, a grimace on his face.

“What’s eating at you, _mon bonheur?”_

He looked away, and his jawline was highlighted delicately in the slivers of light, tense and held rigid. He felt the dread come in once more, the darkness shrouding him like an oppressive vice. 

_I had that dream again. The one where I’m not the one falling but I still die over and over again._

“I--” he stopped, and looking back at her, he took the proffered hand, squeezing it once tightly before letting go, the feeling of skin on skin too much to bear. She frowned, her brows furrowed in abject sadness. She understands; he knows she does, because she closes her eyes and draws back, giving him the space he needs. He is hurt all the same, a lance to his chest that drowns him in the blood he swore he’d never spill onto his sleeves again.

**“I just couldn’t sleep.”** He sighs heavily. “And I didn’t want to wake you seeing as--”

“You can wake me.” 

She says it decisively, and he believes her immediately, with fervor, with how strong her voice is. 

“You know that, Kieran. Always.”

He looks at her gratefully, and she is caught up in the way there are galaxies in his eyes, even when all the world around them is dark. 

They stay like that for what feels like eons, caught up in the acceptance they’ve found in each other. 

Then, Lauren broke the peace reluctantly. “I--well, the interview did not go very well.” She sighs. “ _That’s_ an understatement--I got absolutely nothing out of it.”

Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Nothing? Not even--”

“The thing we’re especially bereft of is onsite evidence.” She worried her lip between her teeth. “I haven’t been back there since--and they’ve cordoned it off. I think if I ask they’d let me go--but--” She looks up at him, and he answers her.

“You want me there?” 

She smiles. “That bastard ego--yes.”

“Ha! So I’m right--”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He laughs, and all is roses again. Then:

“What do you propose we do about it?”

  
They looked at each other, a silent thing forming between them. Kieran’s face morphed into one of devilish excitement, his smirk lecherous. 

“Are we thinking the same thing, officer dearest?”

Lauren laughed, shaking her head. “You aren’t seriously--”

He pointed to the racks of clothes. “You have pants in your suitcase?”

_“Yes,_ but--”

“So then?” And in a flash he leapt from his reclined position on the wall, striding over to the closet door. He unlatched it deftly, making his way to the balcony door and throwing it open, his wife on his heels, the drape of her nightgown pooling over her ankles as she followed him.

He bends and grips the rail, looking down below at the expanse of grass, rhododendron bushels and myriad rocks that led down the embankment and beyond. His stance was a mirror of the morning, except this time it was filled with a different adrenaline, a new rush and vigor. He turned back to her with a wide grin. 

Lauren shook her head again in amusement. “Don’t you think we’re getting a little too old for this, now?”

  
 _“Really, mon amour._ How you wound me. I’m barely thirty-four--”

“That’s nearing middle age, isn’t it, subordinate?”

“ _Excuse_ me? It is most certainly _not--”_  
  


But he stopped as she let out a breathless laugh, arms crossed and hip cocked. She made a show of looking skeptical, but Kieran could always see deeper than that, into her eyes which held the bright spark of thrill in them. 

“So, subordinate?” She sauntered up to stand by his side, looking out to the cove beyond, where all the secrets they desired lay. 

“Ready for a little night work?”

And he matched her grin. “Aren’t I, now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bash you over the head with Lauki angst with Cuckoo’s Egg, I bring you back with Kieran Trauma and do it again. You all know you love it.
> 
> \- We’re a good bit more than halfway through this fic! I’m so excited for the second act; fasten your seatbelts and keep your children secured at all times, because it’s gonna be a ride. 
> 
> \- NOTE: the 18 chapter cap is VERY VERY tentative, and I foresee that it may change to 16 in the coming weeks. I’m bad at estimating numbers, and while I have events planned I tend to come up with things as I go, so I don’t want to stretch it out two chapters extra unnecessarily if there’s nothing left to tell. 
> 
> \- Another little thing: the endearments. I’ve tried to keep a motif going where I indicate emotional state/truth status by what endearments are used. Lauren almost always uses mon bonheur (roughly--my good fortune, or good luck), and Kieran mon cœur (my heart, the simp) when they’re being genuine/honest/affectionate. Kieran uses darling/mon amour as teases/when they’re in front of others and pretending, Lauren uses dear/dearest/darling sometimes (and subordinate ofc). Bien-aime (roughly, good love) is used when people are being disingenuous/insincere or, again, putting on a show. Little hint for you, maybe?
> 
> \- We’re almost at 100 kudos/1000 hits, and I cannot stress this enough: I love every single one of you. Your support has me on the moon and I am so, so grateful that I am able to entertain you with this fic. Love, love <3
> 
> \- the “twelve years” thing is absolute bullshit and Not Canon so please don’t read too much into it ;;
> 
> \- I have to keep coming up with ways Kieran gets all the daisies he gives Lauren but honestly? I’m running out of ideas he’s just pulling them out of his ass whew
> 
> \- Morning Glories: love in vain ;). Edelweiss: courage, devotion.
> 
> \- As always, Simp Kieran Agenda going strong. Please contribute to this cause and help our hopeless man ;v;
> 
> Comments/kudos are espresso cups (there’s no other food in this chap lmaoo) <3
> 
> -thumbipeach


	10. Stake a Claim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you make of that, Detective?”

She'd just barely tucked her blouse and buttoned up her pants, a stiff black pair with a silver buckle that took her back years and years, when she heard an exhilarated whoop from outside. She ran out onto the balcony to find her husband already on the ground, having leapt off the balcony rail in a fit of impulse.

Lauren shook her head with exasperation and incredulity as Kieran landed with a soft thud on the gravel below, silent feet catching the earth with the practiced motions of a cat. He looked up at her and grinned devilishly.

_"Try to keep up, officer."_ She could see him mouth, hands cupped around his lips to muffle the carry of his elated voice.

She let out a joyous, challenging laugh, and then, stepping back a little and squaring her shoulders, she ran up and caught the railing in a practiced grip, swinging her body over and landing neatly next to her husband.

"You were right, I think," she whispered as they started off, pace light and synchronized, "I am most certainly still fit for duty."

"Not too old now, Detective?"

“No indeed, subordinate!”

They fell into step together, feet clicking in time as they shied away from the outside lamplight, delving into the pockets of shadow cast by the jagged rocks of the Fae’s Cove. She could feel herself descend once more into the familiar shroud of silence, her footsteps soft and barely-there wisps in the night. Her partner was the same; the only indication of his presence was the huffs of wind beside her and the hints of his level breathing.

It felt more like home than anything.

“I’m surprised at how easy this feels.”

“Are you? It’s not like _you_ were slacking.” Kieran smiles. “If anything, I should be the one saying that.”

She laughs. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Being an art teacher doesn’t afford me much activity, after all.”

She snorts as she catches the cliff with her hands, climbing onto a step of rocks and making her way around the back of the cove’s curve, avoiding the main pathway as much as possible. 

“What, running around making sure paint doesn’t get all over the place doesn’t give you a workout?”

He deadpans. “I teach college students, not toddlers.”

“Really? I seem to recall you coming home absolutely _slathered_ in acrylic—“

“Oh that’s a different story—someone had left a whole can by the closet door and I tripped over it—“

“You? The graceful assassin? You don’t trip—“

“Am I lying to you, darling?” He swung himself up high onto the rock, reaching down to grab her with a gloved hand, pulling her up with him.

She laughed. “No. That’s the thing! You’re secretly very clumsy, is all, subordinate.”

“How can you call me clumsy when I literally just dragged you up here with me?” He threw a mocking hand up. “Such disrespect, I get! **It does hurt so!”**

“I’m starting to think _you’re_ the toddler.”

_“Really.”_

They reached the point where the cliff broke away into a large slope, peering down at the place they’d stood mornings before, a body in the midst of the clearing. They could see the faint outlines of the tape cordoning off the section of pathway and the littered police equipment. Nobody was around.

“Well. We’re here.” 

Lauren sighed in exasperation. “Do they really not know that you have to _keep_ people watching the scene—? This—“

“Well, murders aren’t common down here.”

“Yes but they should _know.”_ Lauren shook her head, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a pair of sleek black gloves to match Kieran's, fitting it tightly over her knuckles, fingertips pinked with the slightest chill. 

Kieran's eyes twinkled with mirth, swirling things of ocean blue in the darkness of the night. "What are we looking for, exactly?"

_"Well,_ subordinate--anything suspicious."

"Oh _that_ narrows it down--"

"Don't be an ass, you know what I mean. Anything out of the ways, unordinary.” She paused. “ _Oh! Wait,_ one thing--" and she held up her thumb and forefinger, miming the shape of a pistol.

"—Try and see if you can find it. The revolver."

Kieran nodded in recollection. "I'd forgotten about that. Yes." Then, he hummed and stroked his chin with his thumb thoughtfully. "You know what else?"

"What?"

He looked up at her, rising from his crouch and dusting off his pant legs of orange dust, frowning slightly. 

"How come we didn't hear a gunshot? If she wasn't shot beforehand, how come there wasn't any noise?"

Lauren nodded. "Yes. I'd thought of that—“ she looked upwards thoughtfully, her eyes resting on the moon, waxing in its place among the stars.

"I mean, it's not too difficult to muffle a gunshot."

Kieran nodded. "I know. A lot of assassins had to find ways to work around it." He paused. "Most of them used cloth."

Lauren pursed her lips, watching her husband's eyes dim a little with the memory of it. She bent her head to catch his gaze, and he smiled ruefully and shook his head. Affirming that he was alright, she smiled sadly and closed her eyes.

She stepped back and continued. "So, on that vein--try and find something of that sort, too." As if in demonstration, she pinched the folds of her black blouse and nodded. "Something thick enough to stifle the noise."

He nods. "Then—?"

"I'll take the caves to the north. Assuming that's where Mrs. Challenger met her murderer, it might still have something of note." She gestured to the clearing. "You scan the shore. If the murderer didn't take the revolver, I'd bet my life it's in the ocean somewhere."

Kieran's brows furrowed in confusion, then cleared just as suddenly. "Ah. Fingerprints."

Lauren nodded. "That's the thing. Just see what you can turn up."

He nodded, bowing mockingly and bringing his fingers up to his forehead in a mock tip of a phantom hat. "Will do, my lovely superior."

She smiled affectionately, then stopped in her continued descent, turning back to face him. 

He stood stolidly in the night, loose shirt flowing down his chest and waist, tucked generously into tight slacks slung over silent boots, all of the same color. He looked at home; a wraith in the darkness, a spectre of nightmares shrouded in the soft glow of the moon. She was struck with the familiarity of it; it felt like she’d met her shadow, finally, that he’d come back from a long trip and was finally with her once again.

“Kieran…” she huffed breathlessly, coming back to him and looking up pleadingly. _“Be careful,”_ she whispered delicately. 

He looked a little taken aback, then stopped the quip on his tongue at her expression. It must have been a harried, worn thing, for he took her hand in his and squeezed, briefly, then backed away.

“I will, _mon coeur._ You know me.”

She nods. “I do. But still—”

He mimics her nod and turns. She makes to as well, but something stops her last minute. She looks back to see him looking over his shoulder at her.

“Lauren.”

She turns back. “Yes?”

He pauses, looking down, then into her eyes, blue meeting solid gold. 

“If you’re in trouble, call for me. I’ll come.”

Her lips part in surprise, and the corners of them turn a little bit. “Even if—”

“No matter what.” He nods. “You know that.”

She smiles, full, a delicate cashmere. “Likewise.”

He smiled, a wry thing caught in affectionate adoration, a promise made. 

Then, with a salute of her own, they part ways, him sliding down the rock deftly and with practice, her making her way across the cliff and down to where the cove splits into crevices, each dip slightly bigger than the last, pockmarked like tunnels.

The tide spills foam onto the rock, lining the hard divots of the cave in silvery residue. Lauren tries her best not to slip, cautiously placing her foot down in practiced motions as she brings herself closer and closer to the mouth of the cave nearest to her.

She finds herself standing stock still, taking account of the barren hollow, the lip of the cave dipping as perfectly as a slot of honeycomb into the cliff’s structure. She can see nothing upon cursory glance, but she draws no conclusions from that; she’d just have to do what she does best.

She pins her hair up, straightening her back and stretching her spine, tightening her arms out in front of her and cracking her knuckles, all with the deft practice of a master.

_Alright, Detective Sinclair. Let’s see what you can find._

She delves further into the cave, making her way over unassuming dips in the rock and damp spots where water has seeped through the cracks. Her eyes rove over the same expanse over and over again, looking for things that may sully the picture of the the pristine cave, something—

She finds it. Nestled into a large boulder to the left of the cave, tucked lovingly into the gaps between the rock, is—

The Admiral’s little leather-bound book.

Lauren tugs it by the thin string on the clasp, taking care with her gloves, and holds it up to what little light streams in via the moon outside. It’s dim, but she can see the faint etching into the dark leather binding, little buttercup and calla lily decals bordering the sides in neat lines. It’s a startlingly delicate thing; and she recognizes it immediately from all those mornings observing the stoic, almost melancholy figure thumbing the pages on his balcony.

She frowns. _This doesn’t look too good. But—_

She huffed, the school of thought that Kenneth Challenger indeed had something to do with his wife’s murder permeating her head. However, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that that was wrong. That there was _something_ she was overlooking--

She was about to open the clasp and peruse the contents, but then stopped herself last minute.

“ _He’d hate me if I opened this without him.”_ She muttered to herself, resisting the urge to twist the little bead of a latch and unfurl the leather strap from the binding. 

So instead, she tucked it carefully underneath her arm and continued onward, first brushing the rock down for anything more to be discovered. Finding nothing, she turned to the middle of the cave and stopped.

She looked at it blankly for a couple of moments, trying to figure out why the spot in particular was holding her. Then, she let out a quiet gasp.

It was difficult to see in the dim light, but Lauren crouched lower to get a better view of the faint scuff marks on the rock. They weren’t methodical--in fact they looked quite desperate, like frantic, haphazard scrapes of chalk on a board. 

Something clicked--heel marks. She’d often accidentally scraped the wood of their house floors with the heels she wore to work, giving Lana, their housemaid, a constant barrage of grievance whenever she came home in a rush of excitement and neglected to heed the treads her shoes would make. These were that--except here they probably weren’t mere accident.

_Was she strangled here? It would make some sense--no blood trail would be left if they then dragged her to the cove afterwards—_

_But that was the thing._ She settled her weight on her heels, elbows on her knees in thought. There wasn’t a blood trail _anywhere,_ as far as she could tell--so when was she shot? How close was it to her actual time of death, and where was it?

Still lost in thought, she rose absently and began to unconsciously pace, moving deeper into the cave while she followed the scent like a bull-terrier to its trail. 

And then let out a muffled scream when she heard tapping on the rock and a hand on her wrist.

She turned with practiced panic, the glint of a spare knife whipping out of her waistband before she herself could even register it. She set her jaw, tightened her arm—

And then relaxed her hold when she saw startled blue eyes meeting hers, black fabric spilling over the gentle hand that held hers.

_“Sorry, amour._ Did I scare you?”

She exhaled harshly in relief, the hand with the dagger falling to her side as she clutched his arm with the sagging weight of excess adrenaline.

“ _Yes_ subordinate, _God--_ warn me next time?”

“I did! You heard me—”

“I know, I know—sorry.” She bit her lip abstractedly. “I was--”

“Onto something?” He smirked devilishly, stepping back from her grip as his arm slid down to tease her fingertips. Lauren smiled softly, nodding assent. 

“Yes--ah! But first: you!” She gestured excitedly. “What have you got?”

He sighed. “Good news and bad news. Which one do you want first?”

“Good news is always a better bet, I think.”

“Ok then--” and he held up his other hand.

“—I found the pistol!”

It was a simple thing of rose-gold—a Smith and Wessen, blush-silver top and coal-black grip. Lauren clapped in victory, a smile coming onto her face.

Kieran smiled back, and then, like a magician to his hat, reached up with a dramatic flourish and drew out a little handkerchief, strawberries printed on its ivory hem. But there was a bit too much red--the center stained with an almost perfect crimson circle, rusting at the ends.

“That’s that, then.”

Lauren nodded, examining the pistol in the moonlight. “Not too expensive, I would hazard—not capital make, either.”

Kieran frowned, shaking it a little. A soft rattle sounded.

“Sounds like it’s still loaded, no?”

Lauren let out a bark of amusement. “ _That’s_ not how you do it! You have to check the magazine, dear.”

Kieran, frown persisting, proceeded to fumble with the safety catch, the trigger, anything but the chamber where the bullets would have lain. Lauren doubled over in mirth, shaking her head at her husband’s infantile struggles.

“You are still _useless_ with those things, even after I--oh _give it_ here, before you discharge it--”

She reached out for the handle, and he handed it to her with begrudging defeat, a petulant pout on his handsome face.

“Horrible things, guns. I could _never--”_

“I _tried_ to teach you once, remember? And you never listened--”

“Because they’re asinine! Who makes it _that_ complicated--?”

She pops the chamber open, revealing two gold-tarnished bullets still nestled in their spots. Holding it out to him in triumphant demonstration, Kieran regarded it with despairing exasperation before waving a hand.

“I’ll leave them to you, dearest officer. I’ve got my swords.”

“As you should.” She unhooked a bullet from the slot, holding it up as if it were a dollar bill, the metal glinting in the shine of the stars above. The ocean beat a steady lull, calming her beating heart slightly as she examined the pin of steel.

“They’re also not capital manufactured...I’d say from somewhere outside--perhaps Anstartum or Greenwich? They’re relatively isolated, but close enough to have heard of the Hyacinth.” She paused, cradling the bullet in her palm as Kieran came up to inspect it with her. 

“I wish Kym or Will were here--could ask Kym. She’d know definitely.” Lauren frowned.

“We could try mailing it?” Kieran suggested. “The police would understand if you asked to send some letters to the capital--”

“As long as I promise to put it through them.” She sighed, looking up at him doubtfully. “Think we could manage something?”

Kieran considered, toying absently with the bullet in his fingers. Moonlight bounced off the object, reflecting little glass shards of blue light on the rock below. Then, he smiled and snapped his fingers.

“Just say you’re delivering files on this case--informal, of course. I’ll pad this up and slip it in somehow.” He holds up the bullet. “So as long as they don’t do a thorough check--”

“Which they probably _won’t,_ seeing as—“

“—exactly. We can get it to Kym in time, then.”

She smiles. “Alright. Sounds like a plan.” She crossed her arms to stave off the soft ocean chill that had spread through the cave. “I’ll have to send it out as soon as possible--seeing how the mail service is here.” She sighed. Then, suddenly, she looked up at him again.

“Ah--you said that you had bad news?”

“ _Oh.”_ Kieran rolled his eyes, looking back towards where he’d undoubtedly journeyed from, the shoreline stretching back to the pathway. “The _bad news_ is that aside from that thing, there’s nothing else.”

“ _Nothing?”_

He shook his head. “Unfortunately not. I--that’s the thing--I couldn’t even find any blood!”

She shook her head incredulously. “No trail--?”

“ _None_ whatsoever!” He looked at her with a raised brow. “What exactly can you make of it?”

She sighed, sagging her shoulders in defeat. “I don’t--I mean, what it probably means is that she was shot where we found her.”

“Then--”

“I’m not sure.” She fingered her chin thoughtfully. “We’ll have to consider it further after we get Mrs. Rethburn’s testimony tomorrow.”

“Alright.” He nodded. Then, he pointed to the book still under her arm, quizzically. “You found--”

“Oh! Yes--” and she held it up to show him--”recognize it? It’s the Admiral’s, remember?”

“The one he was reading— how did _that_ get here?”

“I don’t know. Looks pretty telling, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what it seems like, officer. But it could have easily been stolen, no?”

“Certainly possible.” 

He moved closer, taking the book from her and studying the spine, the cover, brushing his fingers over the buttercup engravings like she had done. “Did you see what was in it?”

She shook her head. “I waited for you.”

He smiles. “Aw, _didn’t you?”_

“I can’t move forward without my subordinate, now can I?” And she matches his smile. 

He laughs happily, tossing the book between his hands casually, as if it were something from his study and not an incriminating piece of evidence. Lauren hisses.

“Stop that! Just--ah...we can’t take it back, can we?” She pouts. “The police will know--they’ll need to find it eventually.”

“Well,” he smirks, “that’s what we’re for, no?”

She frowns. “How are we going to--?”

And to her immense surprise, he grins, digging in his pant pocket and pulling out a little match with another decided flourish.

“I thought we might need it eventually,” he says triumphantly at her questioning look. She laughs joyously, her brows quirking upwards.

“I see you’re good for _something,_ subordinate!” She beckons with a finger, inviting him to come sit on one of the rocks in the cave, one that is hit more generously by starlight. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment and leave it at that.” He follows her, sitting cross legged on the crags and scraping the match on the stone. A flame jumps to life, flickering solemnly on the little wick and illuminating the pair in dull orange and yellow. She comes to sit beside him, crossing her legs and nestling into his shoulder to peer at the book as he unclasps it.

Firelight dances off the rough parchment where scraps of writing lay. One side was a list of figures--large numbers marked neatly in blue ink--the other side was designated for small notes, scrawls in a lilting hand that Lauren could just barely make out.

“Finances. In this thing?” Kieran flips through some of the pages, Lauren drawing closer to get a better look. The numbers dwindled with every turn of the page, notes becoming more abundant as they neared the end of the book. When Kieran eventually reached a blank page, they drew back and looked at each other.

“What do you make of that, Detective?”

“I mean, we’d summed him up to be decently meticulous—I suppose this is just corroboration of that impression.”

“Well _yes,_ but why is it _here?”_

Lauren took the spine gingerly from his fingers, skimming through the contents again. She stopped on a recent entry, dated just two months ago.

“Remember how I said Aria was losing money?”

Kieran nodded. Lauren held the book up in demonstration. 

“Well. It appears it’s _his_ money.”

Kieran frowned. “So someone—“

“You know what _I_ think?” She waved the book in the air as she mused, leaning into her husband's shoulder to whisper in his ear. “Aria took this book from her husband to come out here. Supposing she was meeting her presumed blackmailer—the person who wanted money out of her.” 

Kieran opened his mouth in a slight gasp of understanding. “Ah! So—her blackmailer is here, you think?”

Lauren shrugged. “Other than that the theory is that she came to meet the Admiral down here—which doesn’t make sense.”

“Right.”

She frowned. “I didn’t bring a camera with me—just as well, I think—I can't develop the film even if I _do_ take pictures. But—“ 

“We’ll have to keep this information in mind, then.” Kieran said, snapping the book shut with finality. Lauren nodded.

Then to her surprise, she reached up a hand to stifle a long yawn that threatened to escape her lips. Fatigue suddenly overtook her limbs, and she found herself sagging ungracefully, burying her nose in her husband's shoulder, inhaling the scent of poppies and ocean spray.

He notices, the devil. Smirking, he nudges her gently with a loving arm. “Tired, officer?”

She sighed, rising and stretching languidly, fluid like a cat. “I suppose I am. Didn’t really notice.”

She wedges the book back between the two rocks where she’d found it, then turned over her shoulder with a knowing glint. “It’s all these midnight dates I’ve been going on.”

He matches her wide smirk with one of his own, kicking his legs out to rise with a leap off the rock. “ _Really, Madame_ Sinclair-White. How scandalous!” He drew closer as he adjusted the dagger in his waistband. 

“What would your husband think of this, hm?”

She grinned, teasing his collar lightly. “Oh, I’m sure he’d be fine with it--” and she held a playful finger up her lips, the corners curving none-too-lightly--”if we don’t tell him.”

They began to climb back up the rock, still bantering all the while. Kieran raised an eyebrow at his wife, swinging himself lightly onto the cliff’s edge. 

“Really--if I’d known you’d be such a deviant I’d have been more careful about who I let you carry on with!”

She turned over her shoulder to look him in the eyes, a challenge in themselves. “Likewise, subordinate!” She untied her updo, letting her hair fall over her face like a curtain. “I wonder what _your_ wife would think of all this sneaking around!”

He caught up to her, catching her waist in his hand as she stifled a playful yelp. He leaned in to whisper in her ear, his breath ghosting over her ear. 

_“She’d be fine with it--after all, I can’t quite hide anything from her, can I?”_

She laughed, pinching his ear lightly. “No, you can’t! I know exactly what you’re doing, dearest husband.”

**“Well damn, there goes those five affairs I’ve been having—”**

She made to kick his shin, but he darted away at the last moment, shrouding himself in shadow. He turned back and spread his hands, mockingly, playfully.

“I can’t lie to you, can I, _mon amour_?”

She shook her head. “You’re never getting off the hook, not from me!”

He tilted his face to hers. “Don’t I know that!”

Then, kissing her forehead lightly, he dragged her by her hand into the dark of night, laughing silently all the while.

———

They reached the edge of the chateau main soon enough, and the midnight hour still sustained itself in the sky. Kieran looked upwards gingerly at their balcony rail. 

“I’m assuming we can’t go through the lobby.” 

“Obviously.” Lauren huffs.

“I still think you’re too old to scale this thing--”

“Of course not!” Kieran turned to her. “Look, this attack on my age needs to be addressed. I’m _not--”_

“You’re _thirty-four--_ coming up on thirty-five—”

She stopped abruptly, suddenly struck with the reality of how far they’d come. How old they’d gotten. How much they deviated from the woman who wanted nothing more than to ease her guilt, and the man who wanted nothing more than to burn his shackles off his ankles.

He seemed to realize it too, for he drew closer and laughed a little when he saw her face.

“We’re _both_ getting old, aren’t we, _mon coeur?”_

She smiled rather ruefully, tucking her hair behind her ear self-consciously. “We _are.”_ She looked up at him through her lashes. “I’d never thought I’d--”

“Get _here,_ huh?” He laughed. 

“I mean, I’d never imagined—“

“No,” and he took her hands in his, delicate, thoughtful, his thumbs smoothing comfortingly over her knuckles. “I didn’t either.” 

He smiles sadly, and she mirrors it. She knows what he thought. They both do. 

_We make it out alive. We always do. There’s no other option other than to weather it through._

She turns, preparing to climb up the chateau to their balcony, but she suddenly finds herself gripped frantically by the waist, dragged back into the shadow of a corner.

Her indignant yelp is stifled by a soft hand on her mouth, and she turns to Kieran with an alarmed question. He locks eyes with her and then points to where a man has come out from the lobby doors, clutching a large phone in his hands. 

It’s Mr. Fairson. His face is red, splotchy with repressed anger and something else--shame, they think, and Lauren muffles a gasp, pressing herself back further into Kieran’s hold. They can pick up the conversation, blown by the soft wind into their ears. His voice is gruff with sleep and tense with agitation, like sandpaper scraping stone.

“ _No,_ I can’t sir--they won’t let me leave! That’s the thing-- _yes,_ I asked that woman and she said no--”

_“Is he talking about you?”_ Kieran whispered in her ear, and Lauren nodded slightly. 

_“Must be.”_

“I’m so sorry-- _Yes, yes_ I know I fucked up, but--listen to me, I really think I need an extension--”

They could hear an angry barrage from the telephone receiver, and Mr. Fairson dithered, clutching the rotary tighter in his fists.

“I know, I know--those files--listen, that _wasn’t_ my fault, sir, somebody came in and asked me to forge it for them so I did-- _what influence?_ Bloody _money,_ that’s what--but I promise you I did it all for the company-- _No--”_

Kieran nudged her, clutching her waist tighter as they drew back farther with Mr. Fairson’s erratic pacing, edging closer and closer to where they were pressed. Lauren looked over her shoulder at him, mouthing discreetly.

_Later. Once he’s gone._

“I--yes, of course, I’ll see them through no issue. Thank you. I’m glad--yes I understand that this job is a privilege. Ah--” 

Whoever was on the other line had evidently hung up, the rotary sending waves of silent static through the receiver. Mr. Fairson looked at it despairingly before replacing the receiver with a sharp click. He turned around and looked at his surroundings, scrutinizing the shadows of the awnings, before trudging back inside the chateau lobby.

When his footsteps had receded, Lauren and Kieran let out twin breaths, muscles relaxing slightly. Lauren leaned back against her husband’s chest, and he held onto her waist loosely, keeping each other close for the time being.

“What do you make of _that?”_

“I mean--do you remember the train, Kieran?” She rested her head on his shoulder, turning just enough to look at him. He nodded.

“You thought he was suspicious.”

“And you reassured me to the contrary!” She huffed. “Surely you know by now--”

_“That you’re always right, yes.”_ He sighed mockingly. “Whatever shall I do with that?”

“We’ll figure it out.” She frowned. “He mentioned _forging_ something--he’s a bank teller--you don’t think _he_ could be--”

“Really? I mean--” Kieran looked up thoughtfully. “It’s certainly not impossible. We know how he feels about his wife.”

Lauren laughed. “Seems to be a trend around here, no?”

Kieran waved a hand. “That’s what happens when you don’t think before you move.”

“Oh.” she smirked, rising and dusting off her pant legs. He did the same, making his way back to the beams underneath their balcony. “You thought, did you?”

He smiled. “I am capable of some of it, yes!”

_“Really,_ subordinate.”

Once they were back in their room, having avoided upsetting the peony planter with gentle grace, Lauren sighed and fell face first onto the bed, clutching the covers in relief.

“I am _exhausted.”_

“Told you.” She could feel the bed dip with weight, and looked up to see Kieran sitting in front of her, hair falling loose around his shoulders and a soft look on his face. She smiled, dragging herself up and over to the closet to swap her clothes. 

Once she’d donned her nightgown, she made her way back to the bed, pulling the covers up and settling down beside him. He’d changed into his cotton undershirt, combing an absent finger through his hair and leaning his head against hers. 

“You have a long day tomorrow, don’t you?”

She sighed, nodding as she braided her own hair back. “It’ll be a thing to tackle. But I’ll make it through.” She smiled, turning to him and pressing soft lips to his cheek, toying with the strands of his hair falling on her shoulder. “And I’ll be sure to tell you all about it once it’s done.”

He took her chin lightly in his fingers, smiling softly as he placed a delicate kiss on her nose. “I thank you for your generosity, officer.”

She grinned and kissed him chastely, murmuring a soft good night against his lips as she nestled back into the covers. Kieran reached an arm around her waist as he too leaned back, coal black strands fanning out amongst the cushions.

They fell asleep with her face buried in his shoulder and his in her hair, the day’s toils forgotten in the soft down of adventure and accomplishment, adrenaline draining from their bodies as they lay together, twined closely.

_Comfort and sanctuary. They’d come far indeed._

———

If you’d told Rosa that she’d been hit by a train when she woke the following morning, she’d have believed you without hesitation.

She rose with a pounding, searing headache, fatigue scorching her limbs and a cocktail of irritation and stress clamoring for attention in the back of her mind. She groaned, rubbing at her temples and trying to stave off the impending migraine begging to run amok in her head. 

What a _thing,_ really. She wasn’t one for complaints--but she supposed she’d earned it, this time. She’d come down here expecting vacation and quiet—

“And what do I get in return?” She shouted to nobody, dragging her legs out of bed and adjusting her nightdress irritably. 

“A damn-- _murder.”_

She stopped, her trajectory towards the bedside vanity halted by the truth of what she’d just spoken out loud. She looked down at her feet, her hands, watching the soft blue silk of her nightgown pool on the floor. It was something she’d designed herself--baby blue with camellias stitched up the hem and on her sleeves. She’d been proud of it immensely, wearing it even during the day at times. 

She hadn’t quite admitted to herself that she was shaken by what happened. Hell, she hadn’t even dared to come to terms with _what_ had happened in the first place. She’d grown up in a relatively tough town--death wasn’t something new to her. But—

She sits with false and practiced delicacy on the vanity stool, scrutinizing the harried, worn face she sees staring back at her in the mirror. She frowns, reaching for rouge to dab on her colorless cheeks.

_She’d often wondered how they did it at funerals--making up the body. They’d have to take the face in their hands, whoever was applying colors to a dead visage, and brush red on the apples of their cheeks and on the curve of their lips, shadows to the eyes eternally closed in sleep, unclothe the body to truss it up like a dressed turkey in silks and tulle--_

She snarled, rouge brush still in hand as the pain in her head increased. She rose, changing into a simple plaid dress with little to no fanfare and storming out of her room into the light outside. 

She hadn’t seen Ken since that night at dinner--not even after the body was found. She tried to lie, to tell herself that she wasn’t worried--but the sad truth of it that she had to face head on was that her heart tripped a little when she thought of her dear friend.

When she thought of him snapping a neck and pulling a trigger. 

She once again had to mentally right herself--pulling the horrid thoughts from her mind like she would thread from a fraying hem. She knew he wouldn’t do that--knew him like the back of her hand.

_But did she really?_ As he’d pointed out--it had been over a decade since they’d seen each other, and what did she know of him? That he had been married again, unhappy, miserable, sick out of his mind with regret—

She snatched a pear from the basket outside in the parlor, biting into it with stark ferocity, making her way steadily out the corridor, through the hallways, the headache never receding and only exacerbating the sharp chill of anxiety building up inside her--

And then she paused, for she’d nearly run smack into the object of her musings.

Kenneth was closing the door behind him, looking abstracted and rather mussed--hair tousled from sleep, clothes rumpled fashionably, stubble on his chin. He stopped dead when he saw her standing there, she, who must have looked like a mirror of his own sorrows.

For palpable minutes, they did not speak. Rosa gripped the apple flesh so hard she was sure it would burst in her hand like a pressed bubble. Ken looked punch-drunk, like he couldn’t quite make out what he was looking at.

Then, Rosa caught herself. She was possessed of an innate courage, a thing that had carried her through many rough patches, rips in her hems and unraveling of her carefully-knit threads. She could gather herself, bunch together like fabric and flow through life like water. 

“ _Fuck this.”_

She pushed Kenneth back into his own room with a force, shutting the door deftly behind her and latching it before pulling him to the closet.

“Ro—“

“ _Ken. Écoute—Listen to me.”_ She held his biceps hard in her tight grip, forcing him to level his gaze with hers. Her hands were deceptively strong, tight around his muscle like clamps as she grit her teeth. Green met stark blue, ocean and earth colliding in a storm of heavy emotion. He gaped at her as she looked at him with a sharp pout of her lips.

“ _What_ is going on?!”

He scoffed. “Oh, if I knew I’d be all too happy to tell you, Rosa.”

She rolled her eyes, pressing his back further into the coat hangers. They were empty, none of Aria’s sprawling dresses to be seen. They must have cleaned them out when--

“Look, I know what I told you. I know I said to _leave_ her--but I didn’t mean to _ki--_ ”

“Are you _implying—“_ and it was his turn, clutching at her shoulders and shaking her like a doll in his arms. She was much smaller than he was, a petite porcelain thing, but the set of her eyes made him stop, made him realize that he couldn’t do that to her.

“You said I could ask you any impertinent question you like--and you wouldn’t hate me for it,” she accused, and her voice was soft, almost comforting, like talking down a rabid animal. 

“You—you _can’t—well,_ yes.” He admitted, rather sheepishly.

“Ken.” She looked at him steadily, a sudden mask of calm flooding her pretty face.

“Ken. If you tell me you didn’t do it--if _you_ told me that--I would believe you.”

He looked at her in some measure of disbelief. “You--”

“I _would._ I would believe you without a shadow of doubt.”

“ _Why?”_

_“Because.”_ and her voice was sure, cold. “I trust you.”

For a moment there was a deafening silence in the closet. Then:

“I didn’t kill my wife, Ro.”

She grit her teeth, set them so tightly together she could feel her jaw ache. 

“Okay. I know. _I know._ I believe you. _”_

He looked at her in exasperation. “What--?”

_“Something’s going on here,”_ she whispered. She’d stepped back from him; she’d let up her vice-like grip, and was now toying nervously with a pearl stud in her ear. 

“Yes, I know what that _something_ is: my wife’s dead--”

“No. That isn’t it.” She looked at him. “Do you have any idea—“

“ _No._ I don’t have a clue, Ro!” He threw up his hands, broad things with visible callouses, from pens, inks, swords and guns. She grimaced at his frustration.

“I think you know precisely who did this, and you won’t say.”

“Oh _do_ you, now?”

“ _Yes.”_

They stared each other down, two swans, things of grace and ferocity, fighting for the last kill, for the last say in the matter. Kenneth was the first to fall. He sighed, tension once again crossing his placid face.

“My ledger’s gone missing.”

She wasn’t expecting _that._ Taken aback, she raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over herself. “What?”

He sighed again. “My ledger. The one I write transactions in—I can’t find it.”

“Oh.”

He looked at her steadily for a few moments, something unspoken in the air. 

“Will you...help me find it?”

Rosa considered him.

Kenneth Challenger was the type of person to go to his grave before he would ask for help. He’d _never_ asked anything of her—much of anything from _anybody,_ from what she knew—and he was rarely vulnerable, rarely let anybody see inside him. 

Here was something: the first time she’d ever heard the word ‘help’ from his lips. And in it she could see the other thing, the hidden question that was masked by the apparent one. The one he wouldn’t dare voice for fear of derision.

Rosa smiled, tight, pressed—but still accepting. Kenneth matched it when he saw the silent agreement in her eyes.

“Yes, Ken. I’ll help you out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me screaming somewhere: marrIED LUNE MARRIED LUNE MARRIED LUNE STEP ON ME—
> 
> Also me: trauma trauMA EVERYONE HAS TRAUMA T—
> 
> \- The last part of this chapter was honestly the most fun to write. I love Ken and Rosa :)
> 
> \- As we legitimately near 1000 hits and 100 kudos I wanna reiterate that I love you all and thank you so so so so much for sticking with me. Love, love. I’m genuinely so grateful I don’t think I can say it enough!!!! AHH <3
> 
> \- The strawberry handkerchief is an Othello reference ;) The Dame herself references Shakespeare excessively in her works and I am just following her train like a little lapdog. 
> 
> \- I honestly love it so much when couples make the “my husband” or “my wife” jokes like??? So cute and wholesome and flirty I love it—expect more from that vein >:)
> 
> \- I also love taking the “oh no my partner who I have unbearable sexual tension with has pressed me against the wall in order to avoid getting caught and now I am pressed up against them and hormones are high” and turning it on its head because they’re M A R R I E D haha
> 
> \- SIMP!Kieran Agenda (SKA, as it is now dubbed) shoutout here, but also Useless with a Gun!Kieran shoutout too. That’s my hc no i do not accept constructive criticism—
> 
> \- Buttercups: Riches. Calla Lilies: magnificence and beauty. Camellias: unpretending excellence.
> 
> As always kudos/comments are pears <3
> 
> -thumbipeach


	11. Testimony of One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the hell just happened?!”

When Kieran wakes the next morning, calm and sated, he finds it conveniently bereft of nightmares.

Instead, golden light filters through the closed balcony window, casting marigold shadows onto the floor and bed, swathing their forms in a shroud of warmth. He is caught between sheets of ivory down, hair loose and brushing about his shoulders, his wife’s nose still buried in his shoulder, a delicate hand resting lightly on his chest.

He reached in between them blearily, catching the smaller fingers in his own, thumbing the small band over the ring finger lightly. The small stones embedded in the gold caught the calluses on his fingertips, and he smiled slightly at the soft weight of it. 

Lauren shifted, pressing further into him as she muttered softly into the divots of his collarbone. Kieran chuckled, resting a hand on her head to keep her there, steady and comforting.

“Still tired, officer?”

He could feel her grimace slightly. 

“Well--whose fault is it?”

“Ah-- _ours,_ I would guess.”

A sigh ghosted over his chest and collar, and she pulled back, her eyes meeting his in sleepy amusement. Her lashes dusted her cheeks, and he leaned down briefly to kiss her eyelids reverently, still half-closed in exhaustion and fatigue, but no less striking yet.

“You can’t argue with _that,_ hm?”

She laughed, wriggling out of his grasp and rising from the bed, nightgown wrinkled and hair mussed. He watched her languid movements with appreciation, the curve of her wrists as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and the way her nightgown swayed around her ankles, drawn by the wind. She made for the desk, thumbing through leaflets and stacking them in neat rows with deft fingers.

“I have to write a letter to Kym--explaining why we’re sending a _bullet_ to her on such short notice.”

“ _And_ while we’re on vacation?”

“That too, I suppose.” She frowned. Kieran leapt up, his hair fanning around his shoulders as he strode over to the mirror, rubbing the back of his neck to ease out the tense cramps. He came up behind his wife, clasping her waist in a stray, wandering hand, looking over her shoulder as she wrote furiously on a sheaf of paper.

“What and all are you going to say?”

“Oh, the basics--” she finished with a scrawling hand, flourishing the pen and tapping his nose with it before folding the letter shut. “Murder. Get the bullet for us, as soon as possible.”

“Well isn’t that helpful.” He grinned wryly. “Raises _more_ questions, no?”

“It’s Kym. She’d do it, I’m sure.”

“Right.”

He smiled, before moving off to the closet to change out of his nightclothes. When he returned, white undershirt worn and a soft cream ribbon in hand, she was fully outfitted, pants and blouse tucked smartly, hair done up in a sharp ponytail. He stood in front of her, appraising, and she returned his grin.

“Well, Detective?”

She drew herself closer, pressing a soft kiss to his temples, her lips feather-light. He brushed the little hairs behind her ear, stray things that’d escaped her updo.

“Let’s hope we can clear her of something,” Lauren said, soft, almost melancholy. She stepped back, crossing her arms over herself.

“Do you want her to be innocent?”

“Well—I certainly don’t want her to be _guilty.”_

“No, I suppose not.”

“—Even if it is the most plausible course to take.”

Kieran nodded resolutely. Lauren smiled tersely, bowing her head with a mock salute. 

“Into the lion’s den, then.”

“Good luck, _mon coeur.”_ He winked. “Don’t miss me too much.”

**“Hardly, subordinate.”**

Then, with a final chaste kiss to her husband’s lips, she breezed out of the room, the light following her like a shadow.

Left alone, Kieran walked to the mirror, reaching back to loop his hair around the ribbon, tying it in a swift knot with deft practice. 

He considered himself in the reflection of the glass. 

It was startling, how different he looked now compared to yesterday morning, how different he _felt_ he looked. Whereas the previous morning he’d found himself wading through a mess of insecurity, waves over his skin repulsing him to his own visage, pallid color and waning brows, blood caught in clenched palms; now he found himself observing the color in his cheeks, the light in his eyes like the sun caught in little pools. 

He still found himself wondering at how it could all change so suddenly; how the days seemed to move not in straight lines but in wide circles, happiness and sorrow cresting and flowing like the ocean beyond the balcony window.

He laughed a little to himself, brushing through his bangs with a lone hand. 

_Wasn’t it funny?_

He thought back to the night before, under the awning of their balcony, when he’d come to the stark realization that-- _yes,_ he _was_ rather old now, wasn’t he? He recalled a time back when he was younger, still caught up in bodies and hyacinth stems, and thinking despairingly that he’d die before he reached thirty, that he didn’t deserve to live another day with what he’d done the previous.

The universe loved to prove him wrong, then.

Kieran shook his head, scrambled thoughts dissipating. Then, straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders, and reaching for the packet that held the bullet, tucking it underneath his arm, he walked out of the room, shutting the door with a patient click and dutifully ignoring the brief glance of hyacinths in the hallway.

He walked on, through the corridor and out onto the battlefield. 

———

Angelina arranged an array of scones in a circular formation on her tray, biting her lip as she picked up the disc in shaking fingers.

And then immediately almost drops it, scones and all, onto the ground by the door.

She rights herself just in time, brushing her thin apron self-consciously and holding the tray with both hands, setting it down on the bar table with a relieved sigh.

_What was_ wrong _with her?_

She looked down at her hands, still caught in agitation, nails once perfectly varnished with clear shine, now chipped at the ends and worn from where she’d been worrying them between her knitted teeth.

The past few days had read like a perfect nightmare. She found more and more that what she'd inadvertently spilled to Mr. Sinclair-White rang true. She lay awake at night, racking her brain, trying, trying to explain to herself why she’d fallen into that delusion of halcyon summer clouds and fresh ocean breeze, why she still couldn’t bring it in herself to break away from that, even now, murder fresh in her mind.

"Stop being so _selfish."_ She muttered to herself as she set the tray on the counter, leaning against it to regain the fractals of her composure. 

She thought back to when Ms. Darnley had come in, white as a sheet, asking for her father desperately, that he should come down and see what had happened at the cove. She'd not quite believed it, Rosa waving her down with a placating hand when she'd inquired frantically, a gesture like one soothing a child.

She'd hated it.

Angelina snapped out of it when she heard her father coming up from behind her, tutting at the traces of glaze left on the chestnut wood by the fallen scones.

"Angelina—“

"Yes, yes, I'm aware, _Papa_." She sighed irritably. "I just picked it up. I'll get it immediately."

" _Bien._ Then do it.” 

Angelina made to retort, brows drawn, but then stopped and sighed, hands dusting her dress self-consciously. “Right, right.”

She is almost out of the doorframe, but he stops her with two gentle hands on her shoulders. It surprises her--the softness of it, the hesitance in them--within _him._

“Angie. _Ma vie—écoute.”_

She turns to him, faces him dead on. She’s almost as tall as him, now, but he’s always had a few centimeters on her, and still does, his stolid frame towering over hers like it had done when she was _really_ still a child, and he was the one thing she looked up to more than anything.

“I know this is hard—“ he starts, but then trails off, cuts the thought like a yard of fabric, for he had never been a man of many words, or at least never ones with much import.

“So you _do_ understand, then?” She snaps. Mr. Desmond balks, turning a little red at the ears, cheeks flushing with indignation.

“Do _not—”_

“There’s been a _murder_ here, _Papa!”_ Angelina near shouted, running her hands abstractedly through her hair. “Please excuse me for being a bit rattled—”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say.” Mr. Desmond paused, looking consideringly at his daughter. 

“Could you be a bit more sensitive about it?” Angelina wrung her hands imploringly. “I mean--the patrons here are at an unrest--the police, they come in here and overturn everything--”

“I _know,_ I know--those _people.”_ Mr. Desmond sighed harshly, moving to the cabinet and beginning to take out jams for the morning’s breakfast, peach, honey and cream, margarine, if only so that he wouldn’t have to look his daughter in the eye. He whipped out a butter knife from the drawers below, barely missing upsetting a chalice of marigolds, canary yellow petals falling onto the floor with the commotion.

“That’s not it, _Papa—_ what I’m trying to say—is you’re taking it as though it isn’t our problem!”

“Because it _shouldn’t_ be!” He rounded on her, waving a damp washcloth in his fist. “We’re the ones that host nobles, yes, but they come here and bring their capital troubles out to this sleepy town--”

“I _like_ them!” She protested, bending a little at her Father’s intense glare. “I mean—I don’t like their petty squabbles and their outdated and uppity beliefs, yes—I don’t think _you_ do either! But—I like listening to them. It gives me a sense of—of what the world—”

“Oh don’t tell me about that, Angie!” Her father shook his head, still shouting, voice hard. “Don’t tell me you think that hearing about all the vile things that go on in the capital from _here_ makes you any more worldly--”

“ _That_ may not be so, no.” Angelina drew herself up, picking up the tray once more, fingers now steady with a silent wave of irritation, anger even. “But you can’t deny that sometimes—sometimes—“

Mr. Desmond stared at his daughter as she made her way out the door, turning back one final time.

“Sometimes there’s just evil in this world. No matter where. Even in this ‘sleepy town.’”

And she turned without much fanfare, leaving her father alone, honey dripping off the knife and onto the floor.

Making her way into the main bar, she was aggrieved to find that the only patron there was Mr. Grandier, the uppity man from all those days ago--which now felt like eons, lifetimes, spans of time in which she’d lived as a different girl. He sat in the middle of the bar, nursing a glass filled with burnt amber liquid, ensconced amongst the pots of new yarrow blossoms, brought in from the town this morning by a disgruntled florist.

Now—the irritation wasn’t entirely gone from the man who’d disrespected everybody in the chateau and then some. But this morning, it was marred with something else—an acute feeling of kinship. 

For they were all in the same boat, no? 

Or, rather, the same hotel.

“ _Bon-matin, Monsieur.”_

He grunted noncommittally, looking up at her from behind the lip of his whiskey glass.

_Did Papa really give him alcohol at this hour?_ Angelina huffed inwardly. Her Father was the needless sycophant enough—willing to do anything to keep their patrons content and sated.

“Are you finding everything ok?” She said with a farce of politeness, setting down a china plate with a single scone on it, topped with lemon curd and little mint leaves.

“Everything except the _murder—_ if we’re counting that, _Madamoiselle.”_

She flinched backward, and to her surprise Mr. Grandier’s expression took on one of subtle regret. He cleared his throat.

“I’m—that was uncalled for.”

“It _was,_ rather—ah, with all due respect, _Monsieur_ ,” she added hurriedly, bowing slightly in embarrassment.

He sighed. “Well, it’s the truth enough isn’t it?” He scoffed, taking a longer swig of the whiskey, the amber liquid near spilling onto the countertop with the aggressive way he held it to his lips. Angelina kept her eyes resolutely on the ice cube in the glass, swishing with force. He set it down with a definitive thud, rattling the scone tray on the wood.

“I come down here for a _break--_ and look what I get.” He muttered, words slurred the slightest bit. Angelina grimaced, debating whether to snatch the whiskey glass from its place on the counter and dump the contents onto the floor.

“Ahh…” Mr. Grandier laid his head in his hands. “That’s not it, really. Not what I wanted to say—“

He looked up suddenly. “You couldn’t do this, ten-or-so years ago, y’know?”

That surprised her. She shot him a questioning look, and he continued, words drowning in whiskey.

“I--well. You couldn’t dare travel outside the capital much if you were a prominent figure such as myself.” 

Haughtiness laced every intonation, and Angelina resisted the growing urge to laugh.

“ _Lune_ solved _that—_ you ever heard of them, _petit Mademoiselle?”_

Angelina nodded. She had--the vigilante duo, the spectre of the capital, the one talked about in hushed tones and scathing whispers, wondering eyes opened too wide and simpering lips hidden behind hands. They’d flitted in wisps of conversation amongst the visiting nobles, rife in their thoughts. Of course she’d _heard--_ but not enough for her to lend much credence to the tale.

“Well—if you’d gone outside they’d have suspected you, see—the Scythe, they had rats everywhere. And the Police Department at the time was an incompetant as silk in high winter, let me tell you—“

“Ah, but _Madame_ Sinclair-White seems competent enough!” Angelina cut in, feeling a little bit defensive of the lady who’d looked at her gently, with kindness, not like she thought she was a fragile vase fit to burst. 

“No, no--I’m not disputing that--she’s alright.” Mr. Grandier waved a hand, dismissive. “Better than her uncle was, anyhow--all that man could do was _talk—”_

Angelina frowned slightly. Noticing the rapidly decreasing disinterest within his listener, the older man stopped, continuing on his original line.

“Lune was good--no matter what the people in the capital say, they were really the only competent bastards who could claim to have done _something—_ ” he slammed a fist down on the table, and Angelina flinched backward a little. He grimaced at her evident discomfort, lifting his palm a little in supplication.

“—all I’m saying is, I never would have been able to come down here without them. I’m sure your father can attest to that--hardly anyone over middle class would have graced _these_ walls, back in his day.”

It was probably true enough. Angelina hadn’t considered that much—

Perhaps that was why he did it. Clung so tightly, bowed too deeply.

“Anyhow.” He stopped, draining the last of his whiskey glass, pushing it towards her once it was thoroughly finished. 

“But I’m sure it’s rather pointless now—” and to Angelina’s immense surprise, he smiled a little ruefully, more understanding than anything she’d seen come out of the man prior. She supposed that perhaps, alcohol did that to a person.

“—y’know? All the nobility dragging their own damage up here?” He looked at her. “Some thing, huh? We portend to solve all our own problems and then we go and cart them all down here.”

Angelina considered him for a couple moments. Silence stretched between them, an immovable gap bridged by a little change in something previously established.

Then, she surprised herself by reaching over for a pitcher of lemonade, pouring it into a cleaner glass and handing it to the bemused man. Then, holding up a finger, she walked into the back for a moment, pulling out a lemon sliver, a small coil of canary yellow, and dropped it in with something resembling a faint smile.

“A lemon,” she said in sheepish explanation, curtseying in mild embarrassment. “I do hope it’s to your liking this time.”

He looked at her, seemingly stunned. Then, taking a hesitant sip, he nodded as if in affirmation.

“No more spirits for me, I presume?”

“I do not encourage day-drinking, _Monsieur,”_ she intoned, a mockingly placid purse to her lips. He smiled faintly, and she found her grimace lightening a little. 

They sat in relative silence for a few moments, the only sound being the steady hum of the coffee machine, the seagulls hawking their wares outside near the waves. Then:

“And which one of them do _you_ think, huh?” Mr. Grandier laughed, a little bitterly, a sour thing, tart like a grapefruit and no less sweet.

_“Which one of those fools do you think did it?”_

Angelina shook her head. “I’m not—”

“ _Not at liberty--_ oh, you know--” He waved a hand--”nobody really cares about that. I’m sure we’ve all got our theories-- _why,_ just last night Mr. Fairson was going on about how he suspected the husband.”

“Oh?”

“Well isn’t it obvious?” Mr. Grandier scoffed. “He’s jealous--that young thing around there sniffing after his wife--or rather, her sniffing around him--and then what Mr. Sinclair-White said about when he saw her the night she--well--”

“You’re saying--”

“I’m _saying_ that men like the Admiral--unassuming and quiet, y’know--they do the most damage when they’re riled up.”

_“And are you speaking from experience, Monsieur?”_

A new voice, one of a deep timbre that seemed to leap from the shadows like wisps of firelight, startled the speaking man, forcing him to jump back in his seat to regard the new presence in the room.

Angelina smiled. She’d seen Mr. Sinclair-White come in through the sunlight and rhododendrons, the petals framing his entrance, but Mr. Grandier, facing forward as he was, had not been able to discern when he’d come up behind him. The raven haired man moved startlingly silently, like a prowling cat at night, his footsteps muffled by something unseen, as if there were cloth at his ankles.

Angelina merely held up the already made espresso mug in greeting. Mr. Sinclair-White gave wordless thanks, smiling a little as he accepted the cup with grace.

“Could have given us warning, no?” Mr. Grandier muttered.

Kieran laughed a little. “Did I scare you, _Monsieur?”_

“Well _yes._ You move like a damn leopard!”

“I’ll take that in good graces, then.”

Then, he leveled Mr. Grandier with a keen glance. “I overheard you talking.”

“Did you now?”

He nodded. “So— that’s your opinion of the Admiral?”

Mr. Grandier scoffed. “Well—isn’t it yours?”

Kieran smiled wryly, knowingly, turning forward to regard the cupboards and eye the little painting on the wall, one depicting a sailboat on the coast. He looked at it acknowledgingly, almost ruefully, then took a sip of his coffee.

“Not particularly, if you must know--” He swiveled round to look the politician dead in the eye, and something in his own must have been searching, for the man in question raised his spine a little, his shoulders straight and rigid with apprehension.

”I find the Admiral to be a rather respectable man.” Kieran shrugged. “At least--from what little I know of him.”

“Oh come _off_ it--surely--he’s a former military man! They’re bound to have tempers--”

“But from what I’ve seen of him, he seems to have a rather good grasp on his emotions.” Kieran’s voice was calm, clarion. 

“Yes--but that might all be play acting! You know--get us to think he isn’t really in on it--but he _is_?”

Kieran nodded, not really appearing to consider the point but making a move to acknowledge it anyhow. He turned to Angelina, his hard blue gaze making her stop short a little. 

“And you, _Mademoiselle?_ What of you?” He tipped his cup at her as if passing a torch, but she balked slightly, waving her fingers.

“Oh, I don’t—”

“Really. It’s just us here.” Kieran smiled. “You can say.”

Angelina hesitated for a couple moments. Then, finally, she let it out, a plug being pulled, a dam burst. 

“I think it was definitely a man that did it.”

The two men in the bar started a little. 

“What—you _know?_ You can say--”

_“Ecoute--”_ and she leaned forward, thumbing the button on her collar nervously. She dropped her voice to a decided whisper, eyes wide and searching, as if there were wraiths in the cracks of the floorboards.

“That night--I was in the little room, you know the one--it’s an offshoot of the lobby. It’s where my Father keeps the telephone and things--like a shoe closet, almost, right?”

Kieran nodded. Angelina continued.

“Well--I’d--I could have _sworn_ on my life that around 1 o-clock--not precisely, mind, but close enough--I heard someone talking.”

“Someone talking?”

“Yes! I couldn’t quite make it out--the door was shut--but it sounded like a man’s voice--I just chalked it up to someone taking a stroll outside.” Angelina pointed to Mr. Sinclair-White, rather abashed. “I mean--you did that night, right? And your wife, too.”

Kieran looked a little surprised. He nodded slightly, appearing to still process Angelina’s new information. 

“Have you told the police this, _Mademoiselle?”_ Mr. Grandier asked, rather incredulously. Angelina shook her head doubtfully. 

“I didn’t think--”

_“You should.”_ Kieran said, rather vehemently. Angelina was taken aback by the strain in his tone. She looked at him curiously, but he merely waved a hand, setting his elbows down on the table. He was clad in his typical white undershirt, the loose fabric pooling onto the table and revealing strong, calloused fingers, nicked with pen marks and the tiny etchings of scars. 

“You should tell someone--it would be of immense help to them, I’m sure.”

Angelina nodded. “I--could tell your wife, the next time I see her?”

Kieran smiled a little. “Sure thing. I’m sure she’d be happy to know.”

Mr. Grandier huffed a little. “She’s doing her job, then, your wife?”

Kieran turned to him, expression decidedly neutral. “Of course she is.”

“Right. She seemed capable enough,” Mr. Grandier said, an embarrassed flush seeming to overtake his face. Kieran laughed a little at the sight, his hands toying absently with the small band settled around his ring finger, an almost unconscious gesture on his part, the gemstones catching the light of the stained glass lanterns hanging above them.

“You’re still upset about that day, are you?” Kieran smiled. Mr. Grandier scoffed, swirling the last of the limonade in his glass.

“She could have _said_ something--”

“We’re on a _vacation.”_ Kieran stressed. Then, he sighed, huffing a breathless chuckle through his lips. “Well. That was the idea, anyhow.”

Mr. Grandier nodded, understanding. “Nobody’s really on a vacation, now. We’re all on edge.”

They both nodded. Then, draining the last of the pale-yellow liquid from his glass, Mr. Grandier rose.

“I best be going--I have some letters to write. Good morning to you both.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Kieran and Angelina alone in the bar. He stared backwards at the open door where the man had drifted out of, expression slightly amused.

“Was he drunk?”

Angelina flushed a little, cheeks tinged with mild embarrassment. “Most likely.”

Kieran chuckled, lips curving. “I thought so. Never heard him talk with anything other than scorn and general disdain.”

“Agreed. I think Father might have given him a whiskey--”

“ _Really._ The sun isn’t even up yet!”

“ _Je sais._ Father--I don’t know.” She sighed, shoulders sagging in exasperation. Kieran smiled a little, holding up the coffee in his hands as if in demonstration before bringing it up to his lips, closing his eyes in slight reverence as the liquid worked its magic. He fingered a yarrow bud absently, his palms gracing the flower with silent respect.

“Are you sleeping alright, _Monsieur?”_ Angelina asked suddenly. She noted the dark bags underneath Mr. Sinclair-White’s eyes, prominent now in the rising sunlight. He laughed a little, nervous, abashed.

“Not any worse than I already was. Why?”

Angelina gestured to her own eyes, and Kieran nodded in understanding. “Ah. Well—“

He grinned a little. “ **I just couldn’t sleep much, is all.”**

Angelina nodded. “I hope you and your wife are holding up alright.”

He reciprocated the nod. “Indeed. We’re fine. Lauren is--well, she’d never been a very good sleeper.” 

“She’s helping interrogate _Madame_ Rethburn, no?”

“She is--I do hope they’ll get something out of it.”

“Indeed.”

Then, he chuckled, a small light coming into his eyes that Angelina recognized. She couldn’t help the mirthful smile that burst on her lips, attempting to hide it behind another scone, setting about glazing it lightly with honey. It failed; he noticed

“What--?”

Angelina felt embarrassed, but said what was on her mind. “You--well, it’s nothing, really. Just the look in your eyes you get whenever someone mentions her--your wife.”

Kieran looked rather taken aback, face registering surprise. Angelina smiled.

“It’s nice--for once. To see a couple still genuinely in love with each other. Especially _now—_ to see you two.”

Kieran said nothing for a few moments, then, rising from his chair, he began to laugh. It was soft, mirthful, gentle, his lips and cheeks slightly pinked, painted in a thin veneer of blush.

“I do suppose that’s so—she is a woman deserving of it.”

“Oh, of that I don’t have a doubt!” Angelina smiled. Then, in a fit of impulse, she wrapped a scone in loose parchment and pressed it into the startled man’s hand.

“Here—for _Madame,_ when it’s over.”

Kieran smiled, waving the hand with the scone in enthusiastic thanks. “ _Merci, Mademoiselle!”_

Angelina felt that it wasn’t just for the scone he was thanking her for, but couldn’t quite place that instinct before he’d dusted off his pants and strode out, raven hair and blue eyes disappearing quite suddenly behind the wilted rhododendrons. 

She watched him go, his back receding behind the daunting flowers, and was suddenly struck with an acute feeling of foreboding. She shivered, trying to recollect her thoughts. Then, she turned back, hands against the table, regarding the rows and rows of scones, jams, butters, with slighted apprehension.

All beautiful things. Wasn’t that the truth, now?

———

  
  


Lauren sat in the chair primly, shoulders square in her seat and face set resolutely in polite indifference. 

She flipped her hair behind her, crossed her legs, steadied her heels. Gave a little bull-terrier shake of her head, righting herself fully.

_Alright, Detective Sinclair. Let’s do this._

Sitting across from her was the woman in question, looking for all the world like a dog doused in freezing water. She wore a long white frock detailed with small embroidered lobelias, leaves and delicate vines, that dipped past her knees, wrinkled from where she’d been twisting it in occasional nervous spasms. She held a small handkerchief in her fingers, a soft robin’s egg blue thing which she dabbed underneath her eyes whenever tears threatened to fall. Lauren found that after the ordeal of interrogating Mrs. Fairson, Mrs. Rethburn’s relative calm and composure was something she appreciated, however dully.

“ _Madame—_ we’re here to help you, you have to understand that.” Captain Andrès cut in, muttering lowly, like he was talking to a cowering cat in an alleyway. 

Mrs. Rethburn looked up at the man, leveling him with a gaze that was both cold and appealing all at once. It was most certainly _not_ the look of someone who cowered—on the contrary, it was like an eagle caught in the clouds.

Lauren, once again, couldn’t help but marvel at the parallel--it was a look she herself had doubtless given to countless people, people who called her fragility to the forefront of their minds, rather than the composure she’d managed to build, layer on brick by shaky brick.

“I understand, _Monsieur,”_ she sniffed, waving a delicate hand. Her fingers are surprisingly broad, not very much the dainty things one would expect of the thin, waifish woman. Lauren eyed them apprehensively.

_She_ could strangle _someone, surely. They’re wide enough, those fingers._

“What would you like from me?”

“Well--” The Captain consulted Constable Avery, who held his notepad out in front of him.

“Where were you when the body was discovered, firstly?”

“I was with Mrs. Briarton—Ilse—that’s her name. I’d gotten my clothes soaking wet the night before, swimming—silly mistake on my part—and she’d just done some of her own laundry—so I went with her to the cliffs out west.

The Captain nodded. “And were you with her the whole time?”

Mrs. Rethburn paused. 

**“Yes.”**

Lauren sighed. There it was, again. 

She leaned forward, drawing the other woman’s attention to her. “ _Madame—_ forgive me. But Mrs. Briarton says something different.”

Mrs. Rethburn looked taken aback. “Oh?”

Then, she seemed to consider for a moment, snapping her fingers as her eyes widened in remembrance.

“Ah! I apologize—I forgot. I went back to the chateau briefly, to get more clothes.”

The Captain nodded. “Please, tell us things like this--we have to know.”

Lauren sat back, a hand underneath her chin. She tuned the others’ voices out as her thoughts ran, racing around a decided track in her mind.

_It’s true enough--but Mrs. Briarton told Kieran that she’d been with her the whole time--why lie? If it were something simple as that—_

_Suspicion, then?_

“And--when you found out what had happened--”

“ _Oh.”_ She drew back a little, as if stung by the mere mention of the memory. She brought her hand up her face, touched the apple of her cheek in self-concious grief. 

“I--Pat came and got me. He was as white as a sheet and I asked what happened--and he said--well--he said--”

“ _Yes._ I think we understand.” Captain Andrès sighed, leaning back and brushing his silvery whiskers with a rough, searching finger. “And--would you happen to know anyone who’d _want_ to do this, straight off the bat? Anyone who gives you that impression?”

Mrs. Rethburn looked decidedly uncomfortable, her fingers returning to twist the handkerchief in her hands, wringing it out as though she were squeezing it of water.

**_“No--I don’t have a clue.”_ **

Lauren lifted her chin. “ _Madame--”_

She leant forward once more, elbows on her knees in an open, honest gesture. She looked her witness dead in the eyes, gold meeting brown in hard determination. 

“—anything you say, or know—helps us. Even theories, slight as they may seem.”

Mrs. Rethburn looked at her in alarm. “Are you asking me to--”

“ _Madame_ Rethburn--” The Captain’s voice came in a slow drawl, hesitant. He too leaned forward slightly, although his stance was laced with much less appeal and more so tense reluctance.

“Were—were you aware that your husband was having an affair? With the deceased woman.”

Lauren suppressed an exasperated groan at the utter lack of subtlety, of timing; Constable Avery did not. He groaned slightly, a hand on his Captain’s shoulder.

“ _Capitaine--_ that is _not--”_

_“_ How _dare_ you even suggest such a thing--! The nerve, I--”

Lauren cut in, her voice sharp. “Tina--” and she smiled a little, an unusual thing in the midst of the taut emotion stirring the room--”I don’t think what you said to me allows you to be in denial of it.”

For a few moments nobody spoke. Mrs. Rethburn’s eyes were fiery, stark brown sparking like coal. Then, she tossed her head, a defiant shake that upset the straw-colored strands around her shoulders.

“ _That_ woman--Aria, Mrs. Challenger. She was— _unsavory.”_

Her lips were terse, pursed and prim, turning a delicate violet with how hard she was pressing them together. She continued, her voice building, a crescendo of noise like a symphony.

“She was the type of woman who beguiled everyone around her, and was wholly unabashed about doing so.” She leant forward with sudden force, clutching her skirts in twin fists, her eyes red with some unnamed, violent emotion.

“And she was the type of woman-- _she_ was the type of unsavory woman to be involved in all sorts of unsavory _things_ as well!”

Lauren grimaced, tightening her grip on her chin infinitesimally as Tina continued, emotion and speech mounting to a near shriek. 

“ _She--_ she would have been involved in everything under the sun, every evil, wicked thing you could possibly imagine—infidelity, drugs, blackmail—everything. Anything you could think of. If she were part of the _bleeding_ Scythe I wouldn’t have put it past her!”

She finished, out of breath, her chest heaving. She placed a hand on her brow as if finding her equilibrium once more, slouching backwards amongst the soft, downy cushions she was placed upon. All in the room were silent, choosing so to allow the woman her outburst, to let it spread and dissipate throughout the room. 

Then, something stopped in Lauren’s mind--something that nagged, something that set her off. She looked up sharply, directing Mrs. Rethburn’s face to hers once more.

“Mrs. Rethburn…”

“Yes?”

Lauren paused. Then:

“Why did you mention _blackmail?”_

She stopped short, her hair caught between unsure fingers. Captain Andrès turned to Lauren, curious.

“Did--?”

She waved a hand. “Blackmail--what made you say _that?”_

Again, silence for a few decided moments. Then, Tina began to speak, in a flurried rush. 

“Oh--I--well-- **I overheard--something. About that. The night before she--”**

She trailed off, and Constable Avery flipped a page in his notebook, the scraping sound breaking the tense silence in the room. Captain Andres shot him a dirty look over his shoulder, then turned back to the by now trembling woman. “Go on--tell us.”

She bit her lip. “The night she died--I was outside. I had to clear my head.” She turned to Lauren. “You can give an alibi, Chief Sinclair--you saw me.”

She swiveled around the regard all of them, a sweeping glance before her eyes settled resolutely on her hands, folded demurely in her lap.

“I--before I ventured out to the shore, **I happened to overhear her talking to someone. It was behind the awning out front--I could just barely make out what she was saying--but she was talking to a man, definitely, I could hear it. She--she mentioned something about how she couldn’t get the money in time, and the man said--”**

She broke off again, and the Captain urged her to continue. She did.

**“Well—he said something along the lines of: ‘If you don’t get it by tomorrow, you won’t need those jewels of yours any longer.’”** She paused, looking back up at the assembled company. **“It seemed to me to be somewhat of a...threat. So I left. I got scared. I didn’t mean—”**

“ _Madame._ What you have given us is extremely valuable information-- _thank_ you.” The Captain looked relieved, thrilled, almost. The Constable wrote furiously, his pen flying down the pages.

Lauren stayed quiet.

Mrs. Rethburn turned a pleading eye on them. “I didn’t--look, I didn’t want to say because it makes--it makes me look rather foolish.” She looked down again. “But—I can _swear_ to you on my life— _I didn’t touch her. I didn’t kill her.”_

Lauren stopped cold.

_So—_

“Nobody said anything of the sort, _Madame.”_ The Captain said placatingly, soothingly, like one would a small child. “We just want to know the _facts_ of the matter is all--which is what you’ve given us--right, Chief Sinclair?”

He turned to her excitedly, expecting her to revel in the newfound information. She turned a slow head towards him, her eyes betraying nothing.

“I--”

Suddenly, to the shock of all in the room, the door opened with a dull thud, an officer striding through the door, excited and agitated.

“Sir— _sir!_ Look—“

And he held up, to Lauren’s chagrin and slight amusement, the ledger and the revolver, both held in little plastic casings. 

“We’ve _found_ them--these were located down by the cove, just now!”

_“Wonderful!”_ The Captain rose, bowing a little to the two women in the room. “That’s me, then-- _Madame,_ can I leave you to close this out?”

Lauren, a little taken aback but nonetheless quick on the uptake, nodded assent. Then, with another slighting bow, the Captain and the Constable took their leave, leaving the both of them alone in the room.

Lauren stared, for a long time, at the lady across from her. Her face looked as it always had been--young, with a beauty, while not comparable to that of the late Mrs. Challenger, yet still striking and sharp in the angles of the face, the delicate button quality to the nose and the barely-there freckles on her rounded cheeks. Neither of them said anything at first. 

Mrs. Rethburn broke the silence first.

“I do hope...I was of some help.” She looked sharply at Lauren. “You--you looked at me as though you--didn’t believe a word I was saying...I am--”

But Lauren merely rose, waving a hand, her face still as impassive as it was at the beginning of the session. “No, Tina. You’ve done well.”

She smiled a little, her laugh coming in, all wind chimes and smooth honey. “I’m glad! I--” and she bit her lip, worrying the plump thing between her teeth--”I have been uneasy since all this occurred, you know?” 

She looked appealingly up at the opposite woman, her hair framing her face in practiced delicacy. “I hope they find who did it.”

“Yes. I do too,” Lauren intoned, and she kept her voice calm, placid, not allowing it to echo with the unspoken swirling in her mind.

“I’ll see you at dinner, _Madame?”_

“Ah--yes, you will, possibly.” Lauren said, averting her gaze.

“I do hope your husband is well--holding up alright?”

Lauren nodded, making for the doorway. “We are... the both of us are rather—well, we’re not entirely unaccustomed to this sort of thing.”

Mrs. Rethburn nodded eagerly. “Oh _yes,_ I’d assumed--you’re both from the capital, after all!”

Then, she looked down shyly, cloth still caught in her fingertips. “I’m—”

“Quite alright, Tina.” And Lauren smiled, disarming, distant. “Have a good afternoon, _Madame.”_

And she closed the door behind her, hearing it latch with a solid click, her fingertips trailing off the wood as she began the trek upstairs. 

It was silent. Cold. Quiet. Hardly any windows were in the hallway leading upstairs, and Lauren fell into the relative dark that cloaked her pathway upwards.

She trudged on, and on, and on.

Then, when she reached about halfway up the corridor, she broke out into a sudden run. 

Her heels clacked on the rug beneath her feet, frantic, pulling. She raced past all the other rooms, brushed past the remaining hyacinths in the hallway, down, down, down, to her own room, where relief awaited in the one person who could know what she was feeling—who she could spit it out to.

She burst in, all panting breaths coming out in short bursts, wrinkled blouse and hair falling artistically out of its updo. She barely registered the sight of Kieran, cross legged on the bed, reading a book, his fingers nonchalantly on the red spine, before she slammed the door shut behind her, sinking against it with palms flat on the chestnut wood.

Her husband looked up with detached interest, then recognition, then absolute alarm at his wife’s state. Lauren doubled over, breathing heavily amongst surges of adrenaline, panic. Then, she rose, her head tossed, hair whipping.

“What the _hell_ just happened?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh???? 👀 I TOLD YOU I’D STRING YOU ALONG ;D
> 
> \- Not too happy with this chapter at ALL but! I promise I’ll make it up with chapter 12 ;)
> 
> \- I know I’ve said this a lot already but THANK YOU FOR 100 KUDOS and 1000 HITS. My god. I never thought it’d actually happen, but here we are, and I am so so so grateful. 
> 
> \- Without spoiling anything—this was the biggest hurdle I had to cross in the whole retelling of the story :) So
> 
> \- Literally anyone: mentions Lauren  
> Kieran: yup that’s my wife. Her. The one. I love her. 
> 
> \- SKA is being fed today. The whole beginning sequence wasn’t even in here but I had a hankering for Lauki fluff so—there. My house, my rules, fellow cats and dogs :)
> 
> \- Yarrow: Healing, inspiration. Marigolds: pain, grief. Lobelias: Malevolence ;)
> 
> \- quick! I wanted to mention this for a while but—I know the dashes are kinda messed up a bit, lol. This is mainly because I write on my computer but post on mobile, so the dashes don’t convert properly sometimes. I try and fix it as much as I can when posting, but it just takes too long. I’ll be going back through at some point and fixing all of them—but for now they’ll just be -- ‘s :( sorry if they make it kinda straining to read! 
> 
> Did all that bold text scare you, darling reader?
> 
> Good :)
> 
> Comments/kudos are lemon slices <3
> 
> Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com
> 
> -thumbipeach


	12. Dissection of Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re always five steps ahead of them, no?”

“What do you _mean_ she made the whole thing up—?!”

“Ex _actly_ that!” Lauren threw up her hands, the second time she'd done so in the time she spent pacing the length of their room. 

"But _why on earth—"_

"If I knew I'd say so myself!" She whirled on him, hands on her hips and eyes fiery.

“ _You believe me, rig—“_

“ _Yes, mon cœur,_ I believe you,” he responded quickly, with the beginnings of frantic exasperation. He leapt up soundlessly from his position on the bed, snapping the book he’d been not quite reading shut and quickly making his way to the window, ensuring the balcony door was latched properly. 

Twisting the lock, once, twice, he turned back to her. Lauren started up again with a fervor, rambling as she made a dizzying trek in circles, the points of her heels thumping a steady beat against the rug on the floor, dull and clarion.

"I mean—I have absolutely no doubt that she _was_ outside that day— _hell,_ I saw her, I _spoke to her_! But I have no clue why she'd try and fabricate complete bullshit about Aria being blackmailed!"

"Well, can we assume from this that she was the one who—"

"No! That's the thing!" She whirled on Kieran, wringing her fingers in front of her in exasperation. 

"She said specifically she _didn't."_

Kieran's brows rose. "And she wasn't lying?"

Lauren nodded, her eyes wide. "I have _no_ clue what she gains from it, either! It doesn't give _her_ an alibi—“

"—and it doesn't seem to clear her of anything either." Kieran frowned. 

"God—and the police just ate it up!"

"You didn't say—"

"How _could_ I, Kieran?" She turned to him again, sorrow and faint traces of hurt in her eyes. She ran hands through her hair in something nearing agony, gritting her teeth in frustration. 

"You could—“

"My ' _hunches,'_ she grimaced, "don't override the law."

Kieran's face cleared in sorrowful understanding. "Ah."

"Even after all these years," she laughed humorlessly, her fingers drawn in, "and all these titles, and I still can't move in and just scream out my hunches without _proper_ evidence."

She was silent for a few moments. The afternoon light cast geometric shadows over her face, one drawn tight with emotion. She looked like a painting in the shifting planes of white and black and grey, her face pitched tight with expression and distress. 

“After all these years and I’m still—” her face crumpled— ”I’m still _useless—“_

“ _Hey.”_

She turned as he moved in, a gentle strength that settled over her like a blanket as he gripped her shoulders in delicate command. He bent his back and looked her squarely in the eye, his gaze stolid and clear, grounding her and keeping her rooted to the floor, blue and gold caught in swirls of the wind.

“That’s why _I’m_ here.”

She looked taken aback, and his lips curled upwards as he straightened, flashing her a callous grin.

“That’s what it’s always been about!” He released her arms, pointing a finger at her. 

“You determine the truth,” and he bowed a little, placing a hand on his chest, “and I help you prove it to the outside, no? We do it together.”

She stood stunned, and he laughed, a familiar fondness in his face.

“That’s the deal, isn’t it, officer? You’ve _always_ been the more useful one.” And his eyes were rueful, nostalgic, things of the past caught in them like flakes of blunt snow.

Silence once more. Then, she relaxed the anxiety in her stance, laughing joyously, flecks of rose on her cheeks and a hand brought upward to hide the generous curve of her lips. 

“So you finally admit it, subordinate?”

He shrugged, teeth bared in a wide smirk. “If it’ll make you feel better for me to!” 

She batted his arm as he pivoted on his heels, still laughing, to pace back to the balcony window.

When he turned back, he was serious again, his mouth set in a hard line, jaw clenched slightly.

"So—we know she's lying. For what goal?"

"To cover for someone," Lauren said with decisive conclusion. Kieran nodded in agreement.

"And who would she _most likely_ be covering for—?"

"Her husband."

Then, after a beat of consideration, she shook her head. "That also barely makes any sense—she wouldn't do that, would she? I mean—"

She looked up, an odd note in her eyes. "I wouldn't exactly be on board with defending my husband if he killed his mistress."

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“Shut _up,_ you fool.”

Kieran frowned. "Things _do_ look like that—but you and I both know that emotions aren't that cut and dry." He smiled wryly. "Love is strange."

He looked at her curiously. “You also know that she probably would—remember your conversation on that night? She was adamant in protecting her husband’s integrity—whatever shambles it must have been in.”

"That's true as well." Lauren placed a finger on her lip, forehead creased in thought.

“I wouldn’t be able to completely disregard the possibility...” She looked up. “Let’s run with the theory that it’s Patrick she’s protecting. But it still doesn’t quite explain the _way_ she did it.” 

Kieran frowned. “There’s something else too—we _know_ Aria _was_ being blackmailed.” He turned to her and shook his head in confusion. “We saw so ourselves—the papers, the ledger.”

“So then—“

“Why _attempt_ to insinuate that the blackmailer is at the chateau and directly threatening her—and falsify the means of it?” 

Lauren sighed. “I think we’re going to need more information for that. We don’t know for sure the extent Aria’s blackmailer was willing to go—or _who_ it even is, really.” 

Kieran nodded, a finger stroking his chin, eyes narrowed in delicious thought. “We could assume that her blackmailer was also another one of her lovers—and Patrick was jealous of that?” He suggested, eyebrows quirked in question. 

Lauren pursed her lips in acknowledgment, considering. She snapped her fingers in seeming decision. 

“We’ll keep Patrick Rethburn as a primary suspect—with his wife as an accomplice.”

“Because there’s no doubt that even if she didn’t murder the woman herself, she _knows_ who did.”

Lauren bit her lip. Then, with a slight shake of her head, she looked at Kieran, her mind evidently made up from something she’d been deliberating. He cocked his head, and she waved a hand in explanation.

“Right now—you’ve been gathering intel on everybody’s whereabouts regarding the night of the murder, correct?”

He nods.

“I think it’s best now if we switch tactics a little—“ and she laced her fingers together, toying with them as the gears in her head began to turn, creak and whistle with the coattails of a plan forming in the pathways of her mind.

“—and start looking into the _past.”_

Kieran smirked in understanding. “There’s something more than just vocational jealousy here, you think?”

Lauren nodded. “The money issues. Mr. Fairson’s apparent employment schemes. Kenneth and Aria’s—and by extension, the Rethburn’s—relationship—it’s all rooted in what was going on in their lives _before_ they made the trip here.”

“So,” he clicks his teeth in a wide grin, cocking his head to regard his wife with challenging grace, “you want the details of their personal lives, is that it?”

She smiles. “Yes. Invasive of us, isn’t it—?”

“Ah, but since when have we had qualms about being _invasive,_ darling?” Kieran says cheerfully, and she can’t help but match it, even as her eyes roll in customary dismissal. 

“True enough, I suppose.”

She throws up her chin, leveling it straight in defiance. “We’ll take it on together—“ she points—“we’ll play up the supportive, unobtrusive couple stance. See what we can get out of people.”

Kieran smiles ruefully, the corners of his eyes crinkling in determination and abject fondness. “Sounds like a done deal, officer!”

Lauren laughed, closing her eyes briefly in conclusion, then turned gracefully on her heel, hair swaying, making to change out of her work clothes before the now daunting task of dinner descended upon them.

_“Lauren—“_

She turns back at the sound of his voice, a curious note in it giving her pause, and finds him staring at her, an unreadable look on his face. 

The afternoon sky behind him peaks, drawing in fresh shades of dustier blue and jaundiced clouds, and the warmth shrouds his back, climbing up his form to his jaw, nose, lips, until he is a prince lit by faint yellow and hard planes of white.

“Yes?”

He stares for a few more moments, the war in his mind written plainly on his face, and then seems to make a decision within himself, his lips parting with gentle decision.

“Stop calling them your ‘ _hunches’ ”_

She starts. It takes her aback thoroughly—of all the things she was expecting, it wasn’t _that._

Her eyes open wide, and she turns her whole body forward to truly look at him, staring in confusion.

“ _What—?”_

_“I mean—“_ he shakes his head—“you _know_ they’re not just hunches. It’s the truth. They are _truths._ ”

He cocks his head, leveling his determined gaze with her shocked one. “People have been telling you your whole life that those truths are just speculation—and _words—_ well, they have meaning, don't they? You start to believe it yourself if they say it enough.”

He tilts his head towards her, and it almost reads as a bow, a genuflection.

“ _So start calling them what they really are.”_

She is stunned into silence. That—

_That—_

She stares, and stares, and stares. Gapes at her husband, mouth wide in shock. 

And then, with a strangled noise rather becoming a desperate animal, she pitches forward, closing the space between them in long, quick strides, her hands scrabbling for purchase against his neck, his shoulders, as she kisses him fiercely, fingers carding through his hair and lips bruising, searing against his own.

He lets out a surprised groan into her mouth, grasping her waist in his fingers for leverage as he bends, reciprocating immediately, surging to meet her with unrestrained fervor, a starved man in the middle of the desert. 

“ _Thank you—“_ she pants, breaking apart momentarily, lips swollen and kiss-bitten, a disappointed whine leaving him as she did so. “ _Nobody’s ever—“_

_“Don’t thank me.”_ And he pulls her tighter against him, his fingers settling on the small of her back, warm and blazing, as she kisses his eyelids, lips, jaw and down further, deft hands prying apart his shirt collar to press her lips to the shifting skin there. She was surrounded with the comforting scent of poppies, charcoal, everything that she loved— _home._

_“I love you—“_

_“I love you too.”_

He growled in satisfaction, a rumble straight from his chest that had her drawing back, tugging on his collar and walking them both back, backwards until they fall on the bed with twin gasps of delight.

———

Later, when they’re tucked under the sheets and wrapped tightly together, her palms tracing circles and lazy patterns on his bare chest, she says it again, a whisper into the dips of his neck.

“ _Thank you, Kieran.”_

He drew back a little, looking her straight in the eye as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. 

“I thought I told you not to thank me. I merely stated a fact.”

She shook her head incredulously. “You have no idea how much—“

“I _do_ think I have some idea.” He grinned lecherously, and she batted his chest with a weak hand, pressing her face into a pillow. Kieran smiled, drawing a hand over loose strands of hair, his touch gentle and soothing.

“It’s just—you made me feel so _seen._ I don’t think I’ve ever—“

He silenced her with another kiss, and that was it for another long while. 

When they separated again, she flushed slightly, her lips quirking up in slight mirth.

“You were right, in a way—words have meaning. But—“ she laughed, a little helplessly—“they’re also _terribly_ inadequate.” 

She looks up at him, fingers splayed gently along his jaw, stroking his cheek. “I don’t have proper words to say how much that— _you,_ mean to me. I love you—but it’s more than _that._ It’s quite pathetic, how much I can’t really express.”

Kieran’s face was light, warm. He took one of her hands in his, kissing it reverently. “I understand.”

She smiled playfully, biting her lip in joyous amusement. “I’m just boosting your ego, aren't I, subordinate?”

“Well—it certainly doesn’t hurt!”

She laughed, kissing him chastely on the lips, and turned over, staring at the ceiling now decked with specks of the waning afternoon, light filtering through the sheer curtains and leaving them bathed in a stunted, comfortable version of the sweltering heat outside.

“Oh!” Kieran burst out suddenly, propping himself up on an elbow to look at her properly in a fit of movement. She turned a question at him, and he tilted his head in acknowledgement. 

“I should tell you what I got out of Angelina—this morning.”

And he told her, about the man’s voice she heard leaving the lobby. Lauren’s eyes widened, and she pulled up the sheets around her, bunching them in her fingers as she sat upright, brows furrowed.

“So then—“

“There _was_ someone,” Kieran quirked an eyebrow, “if not a blackmailer—then the murderer, would be my guess.”

“And they could have taken the flower from the pot downstairs, as well!” Lauren’s eyes were alright with acute excitement. “Why didn’t she _say_ anything—?”

“Poor thing, she’s worried—afraid to indicate anyone. I don’t blame her—most people are.”

Lauren nodded thoughtfully. Then, her face turned slightly grave, and she slumped back again, head hitting the cushions as she shifted to regard him, looking up at him from under light-dusted lashes. 

“I’m—well, it’s silly.” She frowned. “With every passing day I get a bit more anxious.”

Kieran frowned, worry seeping into his brows. “About—?”

“If the police are going to start— _digging,”_ she pursed her lips, “into our affairs.”

“Ah.” Kieran sighed, sliding back down to place a comforting hand on her waist over the blankets. “You’re still worried for me?”

“Well _yes—_ but also the both of us.” She bit her lip abstractedly. “I can’t imagine what we’d do if—“

“Hey.” Kieran shook his head, shifting closer to press his forehead to hers, forcing her to look at him head on. “That’s unlikely to happen. And even if it does—I’m not worried.”

He held her chin in two fingers delicately, tilting her face until her gaze met his, blue and gold, a painting of color nestled in its own haven. 

“We’re smart—we’ll figure it out if we get to it.”

Lauren still looked skeptical, but she couldn’t suppress a fond smile at her partner’s enthusiasm. 

“Your optimism will be our downfall someday, I fear.”

“No, _really. I_ think it’ll be my devilish charm and good looks, but perhaps that’s biased—“

“ _Somewhat,_ subordinate!” She batted his arm in mock irritation, and he laughed as he pitched backwards, head nestling itself in the divots of a rumpled cushion. The sheets pooled around his broad back, highlighting the gentle curve of muscle and the ripples of shadow from the headboard above. She leaned into the divot of his bicep, pressing absent lips to the honey-tinted skin. He hummed in satisfaction, draping a hand over her figure and settling decidedly at her hip. 

“Ah—also. They’ve gone and found the gun. And the ledger.”

“Oh, wonderful for them.” Kieran smirked. 

“We’ll see what they make of it.”

“They’re getting on—don’t make fun of their progress.”

Kieran shrugged, turning his head to look at her, his eyes shining with unrestrained mirth.

“Well--that’s another thing.” He drew closer, his nose pressed against hers.

“We’re always five steps ahead of them, no?”

Lauren laughed, throwing her head back and brushing a hand over her mouth to hide her wide smirk. “I guess so!”

She rose from the bed, twisting out of his loose grip and reaching over for her blouse from where it lay on the floor. She could feel Kieran’s eyes watch her keenly as she moved from the desk, to the mirror, then look back at him, pointing a finger in challenge.

“We best get ready for dinner,” she decreed.

“ _Really,_ do we have to?” Kieran groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes dramatically, falling back into the nest of sheets with a surge of mock defiance.

“We’ve got some wheedling to do, subordinate,” she called, flinging his discarded shirt at him as she disappeared into the closet.

“I suppose that’s true enough,” he sighed, leaping upwards with the agile grace of a panther, shrugging the thin fabric onto his shoulders and thumbing the buttons closed until they reached just below his collarbone.

“There’s work to be done.”

She reappeared from behind the closet door frame, clips in her auburn hair and a hand on the wood. The other hand held the little clove necklace, the one she’d pinched from Aria’s jewelry box, the expensive ruby catching the light and glinting in polished red.

Kieran strode up to her, holding her to him with a hand on her waist as he took the chain from her fingers, scrutinizing it with a critical eye, holding it up so the charm clinked with soft metallic chimes.

“It never stops,” he proclaimed with a grin.

She matched it, pulling him down by his collar to place a burning kiss on the corner of his lips.

“No, it certainly doesn’t.”

“Are you still enjoying it?”

“Oh,” she smirked, topaz glinting in the belligerent set of her gaze.

“More than ever.”

———

Ever since the murder—for lack of a better timetable—dinner had been a subdued affair. 

Gone were the sparkles of evening gowns, lavish, heavy meals and abundant conversing. Now, the dining hall seemed washed with a grey hue, the patrons silent and weary as they sat in their places, some staring absently and other’s brows taut with worry and nervous strain.

Lauren tugged at the collar of her dress uncomfortably, heaving a sigh as the lacy fabric settled over her skin again, constricting her throat and leaving her to stew in slight anxiety. She’d surveyed every person in the room at this point, and she had no idea how to proceed, what move to make.

People had started taking their dinner in their rooms; which was completely understandable, seeing as nobody wanted to eat in the room where Aria Challenger had once walked, the phantom click of her heels and the sway of her ivory silks still somehow present in the room, like a ghost that had taken up residence with defiant indifference and had refused to leave.

Kieran looked over at her in concern, looping his pinky finger with hers under the table. He’d worn a casual black dress shirt, sleeves pulled up to his elbows casually, and—of course—collar unbuttoned. She traced absent fingers up his forearm, ending at his fingers, which she gave a slight squeeze.  
  
  


“Are you alright?” He asked, brows drawn in.

She sighed, tossing her braid over her shoulder to disguise the nervous shake of her fingers. “I don’t know how to go about this.” She dropped down to a whisper, requiring Kieran to lean in closer, her voice slightly breathless with frustration.

“ _How do we do this without tipping off the place that we know?”_

Kieran frowned. _“Well, that’s the thing—the Rethburns go upstairs, no? They won’t be down here.”_

_“Damn,”_ Lauren muttered, nodding. “ _So we’re going to have to—“_

_“Hello,_ the both of you!”

They looked up to see Mrs. Fairson, smiling broadly and with a disgruntled Mr. Fairson in tow, come up to them and ensconce themselves in the seat directly across from the couple. 

Lauren smiled thinly, waving slightly as the older woman placed her elbows on the table in enthusiastic appeal, her hands decked with large rings that caught the light overhead and required Lauren to squint in order to avoid the sharp points of reflection.

“Bit of a downer of an evening, isn’t it?” She asked, placing a hand on the table. Kieran smiled, the comely quirk of his lips inviting, and nodded assent.

“Yes—but I suppose that’s to be expected,” Kieran said nonchalantly, “what with all the tension in the air.”

“Oh _that.”_ She waved a hand. “I was telling my husband, you know--” and here she indicated the man sitting beside her, now looking thoroughly put out, face slightly blue with restrained words--”I’ve never _been_ to a place where a murder happened--it’s almost thrilling, in a way!”

“ _Really,_ Petunia?” Mr. Fairson looked disgusted. “Wasn’t it just yesterday that you were wailing to Chief Sinclair here about--”

“ _Oh,_ that was because it distressed me!” She huffed in irritation, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “--A murder--that _I_ saw, after all—“

_And couldn’t say anything about,_ Lauren wanted to interject, but she bit her tongue dutifully, instead busying her fingers with her fork, twining noodles dipped in red sauce around the tines absently, not having the heart to actually eat it. Kieran threw her a sideways glance, and then turned back to the opposite couple, seizing an opportunity.

“You aren’t—I mean—” he rubbed the back of his neck in a show of meek docility, and Lauren suppressed a slight chuckle, “--quite _used_ to murder, are you? You’re both from central Ardhalis, after all. You’d know--”

“Well I suppose that’s true enough, but the thing is that they were all so _far away,”_ Mrs. Fairson said, eyes blown wide. “I mean sure, the newspapers and everything—”

“—that only does so much, anyhow.” Mr. Fairson cut in, tilting his head a little. “We don’t have to worry about anything like that anymore, after all, thanks to Lune--so we got quite complacent.”

“I’m just shocked that it happened out _here.”_ Lauren finally piped up, setting down her fork with a decisive clang on the china.

“This is a relatively sleepy town—I think that’s what everyone’s been saying, lately. So for the fact that something as gruesome as this happened—” she leaned forward, elbows on the table—”well, I do agree that it’s a little _fascinating,_ then.”

Mrs. Fairson looked rather discomforted, and she looked down at her skirts in embarrassed deflection. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Kieran give her a fleeting, keen glance. 

Angelina appeared at their side in a whirl of white and dusty orange, setting down glasses of water before straightening, leveling an equal look at all four guests.

“Was there anything else you needed—?”

There was an unbroken silence for a few moments, and in them Lauren stole a glance at her husband to find him with a finger on his chin, lost in seeming thought. 

Then, he nodded imperceptibly to himself, muttering a quiet “ _Fuck it,”_ and looking up at Angelina with a strange glint in his eye.

“Could we get a bottle of—hm, the Cabernet? For the whole table?”

Angelina nodded. “I think we have one in the cellars—I’ll be back with that, _Monsieur.”_ Then, she looked at him a little curiously, her eyebrows raised in polite interest.

“That’s the first time the both of you have ordered alcohol, is that so—?”

Kieran’s face thinned a little. “I’d thought it was time for a change. Right, darling?” He turned to Lauren, who shot him a harried look.

“Surely.”

“Then I’ll be back.” And she breezed off, balancing a tray laden with almond blossoms and cherry tarts on her hip as she went.

_“Oh,_ you’re too kind, Mr. Sinclair-White, that’s—”

Kieran waved a hand in dismissal. “We _all_ need a little change of pace, no?”

When Mrs. Fairson turned to the distraction of rearranging and tweaking the alarming abundance of her hair with a hand mirror produced from her purse, Lauren turned to Kieran in confused disbelief. Underneath the table, she kicked his shin, and he, ever the belligerent man, kicked back, leaning in with a placating hand on her arm when she shot him a glare and a hiss.

“ _What—?!”_ she began through her teeth, shooting a glance over at the opposite couple.

Kieran graced her with a keen look and a clandestine grin, jerking his head over at the other two with a raised eyebrow. The message, Lauren picked up on almost immediately:

_I’ve seen those two drink._

Lauren blinked in understanding, reconciling Kieran’s plan in her own mind. Then, nodding in reluctant acceptance, she turned to smile widely in thanks at Angelina, who’d set down a large bottle of an expensive looking Cabernet Sauvignon, the label brittled with gold and rough parchment.

Pouring a glass for herself, she watched as the other three did the same, Mr. Fairson taking to the lip of it with an almost startling ferocity, downing half of the red liquid in one go. Kieran visibly repressed a shocked twitch of his lips, hiding it behind the rim of his own glass.

This went on for a while; the night wound down slowly, the minutes crawling like molasses, until nearly a good three-fourths of the bottle had been drunk amongst the four of them (though mostly by the older couple). The Sinclair-Whites had been dutifully responsible, sipping almost hesitantly on their first glasses as the bottle emptied itself.

“I’m--” Mrs. Fairson hiccuped--”going to freshen up a little. Be back in a tiff!” And she rose, swaying slightly as she clutched the chair handle in alarming dependence. 

As soon as her figure disappeared out of the dining hall, Lauren and Kieran turned to each other, nodded in agreement, and immediately launched their attack on the man remaining in the chair.

“ _Monsieur_ Fairson--” Lauren started, dabbing her lips with a napkin demurely, lowering her voice, “--I haven’t really had the chance to speak with you--properly, after the murder.”

Mr. Fairson leveled her with an unsteady gaze, his eyes clouded over slightly, pupils dilated with drink and thoroughly unfocused. He grunted a little through his nose, leaning against the table in appeal. “That so?”

“We were wondering how you were holding up.” Kieran said, placing a gentle hand on Lauren’s shoulder, a hand covering a half of his face, casting a shadow over the side of it that held a slight, searching glint.

“Ah—well, I’m doing rather fine—”

“If I remember from our conversation on the train you weren’t too enthused about your wife dragging you here.” Lauren said placidly. Mr. Fairson chuckled, a watery laugh bubbling from his throat as he downed more wine.

“ _That’s_ an understatement, _Madame_ Sinclair-White. I—God, do I regret coming here!” His voice increased in volume, and Kieran flinched slightly, lowering his own cadence in hopes that it would quell the sudden onslaught of loud conversation.

_“That’s unfortunate.”_

“I mean—” Mr. Fairson prattled on, slumping against the table, fingers scraping the decorative vase of dried wheat stalks in the center, collected from the fields to the north of the seaside port.

“—I come home after a long day of work, right? And I’ve just been chastised to the nines for forging some financial documents for some noblewoman—who paid me _much_ more than Mr. Harris does, mind—and I come home, right, and I’ve been given two weeks leave—the _nerve—_ and my wife—well she doesn’t know—”

He cut off, gulping down more wine, and Kieran reached over discreetly and filled his glass back up, Lauren looking on in slight discomfort.

“— _thank_ you—and then—she thought I’d been using the money for the _house,_ because that’s what I’d told her to stop prying—and she suggested that we take a vacation—down to the _seaside—”_

He groaned, nursing the wine glass with distracted fervor. Lauren and Kieran shot each other a look. 

Kieran raised an eyebrow, posing a silent question to her. Lauren bit her lip, looked back at the _very_ drunk man now with his head in his hands, and nodded. He pressed forward then, leaning across the table and making his voice honey-smooth, prying and lithe.

“ _Forging documents_ sounds stressful, _Monsieur.”_

_“Oh,_ isn’t it. But you wouldn’t know that--well, let me say--” he slurred, drawing his brows in with an almost comical frown. 

“I had to do it for this client—a ‘Mrs. Rockefeller—’ _damn_ was she a pain in the ass to work with.”

_“Oh?”_

“Yeah, she wanted me to fabricate her expense reports for her—and wasn’t she a _charmer.”_ Mr. Fairson laughed harshly, rubbing his face to scrape off the drunken sleep now clouding his pupils and drooping his eyelids. “Used her husband’s influence and everything—eventually I gave in because—damn man, the _money—”_

Kieran chuckled. “ **Of course, I understand.”**

“Her husband was high and mighty, somewhat—a naval officer or some such—and she tried every trick in the book, she did!”

“And I suppose one of those tricks was effective.” Kieran muttered underneath his breath, before setting his face to blank once more. “I’d understand how frustrating that must be.”

“You’re onto it, sir. I’m terribly inconvenienced by it, now! I mean—look at this mess I’ve gotten myself into.” He grit his teeth together. “And my wife won’t stop pestering me to go all these places with her—to the seaside, to the shore, where it _stinks_ to high heaven—”

Just then, as if summoned by a breath of her name, Mrs. Fairson appeared in a flurry of tulle, her hands fluttering over newly-rouged eyelids, face still flushed with drink. 

“Otis—I think I might faint if I stay here a second longer—let’s go,” she said, placing a hand on his back to get his attention. Mr. Fairson looked up at her balefully before turning back to Lauren and Kieran, shooting them an apologetic look as he rose unsteadily, burping unceremoniously into his fist.

Lauren’s eyes twinkled, and she placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder gently, the both of them sharing the same feeling. 

_“Bonne nuit, Monsieur et Madame.”_

“Ah—good night to the both of you.”

And he was hauled away, his wife chattering in incomprehensible slurs all the while.

When they were gone out of the door, they both heaved twin sighs of exhaustion, falling back against their chairs. Kieran chuckled slightly, stabbing a lone piece of chicken on his plate in distraction.

_“Well_ then, officer,” he said, lifting his eyes to hers. “What do you make of that?”

Lauren was lost in thought, once again twisting the collar of her dress, adjusting the sleeves from where they encased her wrists. 

“That name—Rockefeller—where have I heard that before…?”

She frowned, her pretty lips drawing into a pout. Then, she snapped upwards, the light of sudden recognition dawning on her face. “I know! Rosa told me—“

She whirled on Kieran, tugging him downward and whispering. _“Aria was set to marry a man with that name—but it went sour, somehow—and the engagement was called off.”_

He started. “So—“

“So that man—“ she indicated the spaces they’d left behind—“was forging documents for—and she used her old beau’s name to hide it!“

“That does change things.” Kieran frowned. “He’d said her husband was an army official—ah. I see. Do you think he knew?”

”Who, the Admiral?”

”No, Mr. Fairson.”

Lauren shook her head reluctantly, glancing over at the near empty wine glass. “Didn’t seem so. Perhaps he’d only ever met an intermediary—her financiers.”

“Possible.” 

“Then--he can’t be the blackmailer--but he _might_ have an idea who the money was being transferred to?”

“That’s so— _fuck,_ we should have asked--”

“We’ll get it again, officer. Don’t worry.” He laughed. “If they’re that easy to pry apart with drink I wouldn’t be surprised if we wouldn’t get a detailed spreadsheet of transactions by the end of it!”

Lauren shot him a disdainful look, and he merely averted his smug gaze for a heartbeat, looking back to pick a stray daisy petal from where it had fallen over her cheek.

“Good work, eh?”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “Getting them drunk is _not_ very ethical—“

“Oh you want to be _ethical,_ now?”

Lauren pinched his wrist in mock irritation, and he jumped back with a laugh, his bangs falling over his eyes from where they’d escaped his ribbon. Lauren smiled slightly at the sight, tilting her head in slight agreement.

“Well—it _was_ quick thinking,” she acquiesced finally, patting his shoulder. “It _was_ good work, subordinate.”

Then, she lifted her glass to her own lips, some of the wine still stagnant at the bottom of it. After a reluctant sip, the bitter tang hitting her tongue unceremoniously, her face soured, her nose scrunching up in mild distaste.

“It’s not that good.”

Kieran raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“Not really...I—were you really drinking it?”

He shook his head. “Not too much, anyway--only pretended to.” He grinned. “I’m still sober, though! In my right mind, anyhow.”

“Good.” 

He frowned. “It’s not half bad—a bit too much blackcurrant, sure, but that’s an expectation.”

Lauren shook her head. “I don’t fancy it—Cabernet was never my thing.”

Kieran smiled. “You like the port Kym brings out during the holidays more?”

“Oh, I suppose,” she said noncommittally, holding up the glass to inspect the color. “But that’s always too dark for me—and Kym goes and drinks it all before I can get it, anyway!”

Kieran nodded in reflective amusement. Then, he took another hesitant sip, gulping visibly as the bitter scarlet stabbed at his throat. “They taste much the same to me, honestly.”

“Truly?”

“If I were a wine connoisseur, I would have become the drunkard husband thrice over by now, _mon amour.”_

“Good to know. Remember that time when you got _horribly_ wasted two seasons ago—?”

“Don’t mention that.” He said, pouting, a blush coming up on his cheeks. Lauren pinched it affectionately, and he batted her hand away. “I’m allowed to cut back a little, no?”

“Not without restraint, yes!”

They sat in relative silence for a few moments, reveling in the other’s presence. The evening disappeared behind crimson and pink, the cawing of seagulls through the open window filtering away until it descended behind the stars beyond, those gemstones in the sky twinkling in mirth.

Lauren was lost in thought, staring at the wine glass as she held it up before her, swirling the thing delicately and watching the burgundy liquid sway in the confines of the clear casing. Then, she let out a rueful chuckle, looking down at her hands.

Kieran turned to her with a fond eyebrow, and she hastened to explain.

“Ah—no, it’s nothing, really—I’d just remembered something my parents used to do when I was younger.” She waved a hand.

“Oh? I’m all ears, darling.”

“My mom used to play this little game with my dad and his friends around the holidays—“ she held up her glass in demonstration. “She’d give them three wine glasses and ask them to name the types by taste. And they’d sit around and be prudish about wines the way men are sometimes—“

She laughed, lost in the recollection of a chilly Yuletide night, a flurry of an Ardhalis winter descending around the Sinclair manor, as her dad had gotten into a swirling argument with a friend over whether the glass furthest to the right was the Chardonnay or the Decanter, baubles and glittering stars set on the chairs clinking as they laughed and bickered, her mother standing over them in a flowing green dress with a smile that held a mixture of fondness and a curiously smug tilt.

“—and then, once they’d all placed their bets, she’d go back and get the singular glass of port and reveal that they’d been arguing over the same bottle of wine the entire time!”

Kieran laughed, disbelieving. “They wouldn’t notice?”

“ _Never!_ My mom always reassured them, year after year, that _yes,_ they were different--and it never failed!” She chuckled, a hand resting on her cheek as she dragged her fingers up and down the stem of the glass reverently. 

“It’s odd what people will begin to believe if you tell them something’s one thing, when really it’s another!”

“That’s evident.”

Kieran looked over at his wife with an amused expression, noting the way the apples of her cheeks shone with mirth and recollection, the way her eyes lit up with the dear memory. He laid a hand on the small of her back comfortingly, his calloused fingers catching the lace and settling with a decided warmth, and she looked up at him through her lashes, a curious expression on her face.

“What’s eating at you, _mon coeur?”_

“Ah, nothing—I only wonder what made me remember that...?” She pondered curiously, a finger on her lip. Kieran shrugged.

“The wine—?” He pointed to the bottle of Cabernet, now fully drained.

“Yes...but—“ she looked at the empty bottle, the lack of wine revealing a glass-green hue to the glass, her eyes pensive and thoughtful—”something—else. Something’s nagging me.”

Kieran raised an eyebrow, lips parted to ask a question of her, but she merely waved a hand in his direction in general dismissal. “I’ll let you know when I find it, _mon bonheur.”_

Her husband smiled, the hand on her back moving to brush stray hairs behind her ear, fingers thumbing the pearl nestled in the lobe thoughtfully. She shivered a little, pressing into his touch and catching his hand in hers, pressing a stray kiss to the base of his palm.

“Think the night’s getting rather young, no?” He smiled, his lips curving in a wry grin. Lauren matched him, her eyes roving over their empty plates, the barely-drained wine glasses.

“I think, then—” and she leaned in, her eyes catching his, wide and appealing.

“—that we should get back to the cork board?”

He grinned, rising with a deft fix of his collar, reaching out an elbow for her to loop her hand in as she rose in turn, to meet him.

“ _Back to the cork board, my lovely superior!_ ” He whispered, and she shivered a little as his breath ghosted over her ear. Smiling, she gripped his elbow and tilted her chin, preparing herself like a bull-terrier to the hunt.

And thus, with a sweep of daisies and secrets, the two players in the wide stage exit, stage left and with clandestine smiles on their lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FAT SPICE TOWN BABEY. 🌶🌶🌶
> 
> \- I told you I’d please you with chapter 12 :) Your lovely chef is here to serve
> 
> \- Here’s compensation after my latest standalone “ask me your question” (go have a read if you’re tired of happiness and want some a n g st >:))
> 
> \- Following Soph’s confirmation of the launch date (but not the exact date quite yet), I’d like to note that I will TRY to finish AAoCaA before s2 premieres. Keyword: try. I’d prefer to finish it so that y’all can focus your full attention on s2 (as I will be doing), but if it cuts a little into season two then I think that’s also acceptable. You all can come console yourselves with this as Lauki fights :)
> 
> [EDIT: THE ABOVE WILL DEF NOT HAPPEN LOL. HYPE THO FOR THE 14TH]
> 
> \- We are actually entering the buildup to the climax here; it’s gonna get f u n k y baby. Looking forward to tugging you all along for the ride!
> 
> \- Wheat stalks: wealth and prosperity. Almond blossoms: promise
> 
> \- I grinned like a fool while writing this. I am a fool. It’s always Fool hours in my city, of which I reign as reluctant monarch.
> 
> \- PSA: I know nothing about wine. Or alcohol. At all. So.
> 
> Comments/kudos are cherry tarts! <3
> 
> Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com
> 
> -thumbipeach


	13. Connect the Dots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We get out of things alive, Kieran.”

Will shuffled a brittle newspaper in his fingers, scanning the printed text, noting the words haphazardly as he sipped a cup of strong black coffee. 

It was a Sunday morning, and the light shone through the palm leaves and the small olive tree they’d set up by the window, the shadows of the foliage cast over his feet and spreading over the table laden with small remnants of breakfast, milk and toast and little scraps of muffin. 

Just as he was getting to the column on the newest political scandal in the upper west side, his wife came in through the kitchen doorway, her presence announced by the shifting of the light, the slight sway of her white nightgown.

“ _ So,”  _ she started, her voice disarmingly light, “I just got a letter from Lauren.” 

Something in her tone gave Will pause. He looked up from the edge of the newspaper, eyeing her in slight concern. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Well, it depends on your definition of alright.” Kym looked at him, her brows drawn. “There’s been a murder.”

She announced it as though she was talking about the weather, settling against the doorframe and waving the presumed letter in her fingers.

Will spluttered, his coffee catching in his throat. He righted himself, setting down his mug and staring in astonishment.

“ _ What?” _

“ _ They’re  _ ok, I think--” she frowned, reading the letter through. “But someone’s been killed.”

Will shook his head. “Kym, what--?”

“Do you remember that one actress-- _ Aria-- _ something, anyway--the one we went to go see when we had our day off those months ago?”

Will frowned in recollection. He  _ did  _ remember--a sway of perfume, silk skirts. A face that didn’t seem too real. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time--most of the players on the stage had been decked in makeup, caked in blinding spotlights, and he’d fallen into the delusion of their assumed roles quickly enough.

“Well, it’s her. She’s the one dead.”

He stared in incredulous disbelief for a few more moments, then sighed, pressing his finger to his temples. “So, what--?”

“Well.” And Kym held up something in her fingers. It was small, a thing of silver-steel that glinted harshly in the morning sun. A bullet.

“She sent me this. Asked me to identify it for her. And asked for anything else we could possibly dig up.” Kym frowned. “Honestly, it feels like--”

“Kym.” Will stopped, looking up at her with a concerned expression. “You don’t think--I mean--Kieran--”

But to his surprise, Kym shook her head. “No--Lauren--well, she would have said, right?” She frowned. 

“But--”

“ _ No.”  _ Kym shook her head, threading fingers in her mussed hair and sighing. “If Lauren says he didn’t, that means she probably asked him directly--got into him about it, knowing her.”

She looked up at him, leveled him with a hard glare. “You _ know  _ her.”

Will sighed in resignation. “I  _ do.” _

Kym nodded, closing her eyes. Then, she straightened, and held out the bullet in front of her. 

“It’s not that hard to identify it.” She looked closer, her eyes narrowing to the soft etchings in the metal. 

“It looks to be one of those bullets they make out West, in the countryside. It’s got that shine. Greenwich, maybe?” She hazarded.

Will nodded. “Did she give us anything else?”

“ _ Oh,  _ just some specifics.” She held up the letter and ran her fingers over the scrawling letters. Will could picture Lauren’s crimped hand, her looping ink trails and the decided way she finished her name. He pursed his lips.

“How’d they manage to get themselves into  _ this?” _

Kym threw up her hands. “You know who they are. Trouble--” she paused, fingering the hem of her white sleeve nervously--”seems to trail after them.”

Will nodded solemnly.

“Kieran--” Kym huffed, placing her hands on her hips and shaking her head. “--he’s got a lot to deal with.”

But Will was lost in thought, his fingers trailing over the rim of his coffee cup absently. 

He was caught in a wisp of memory, a time nearly four years ago from now, when autumn air had been caught in the solemn promise of an impending winter and on the petals of a basket of pink tulips.

_ November was always a hard month for Kym. _

_ It didn’t matter the day; when October left them in piles of fiery leaves and the wafting scent of pumpkin and squash blossom, Kym would retreat into herself, a somber expression permanently stitched onto her face and a lethargic movement to her limbs. _

_ Will tried in November. He was patient, holding her close when she wanted and giving her space when it felt the chasm was getting too big. He’d sit himself in the drawing room and tap the keys of a long-worn piano, hoping that this time would be one of the rare occasions when she’d come in, twine her arms around his neck and bury her face into his shoulder, not needing to say anything. _

_ Lauren came to their apartment often, in November. Kym would brighten a little when she saw her friend, and they’d spend the day together holed up in the upstairs rooms over bottles of wine and plates of watermelon and strawberries, sharing secrets, Will keeping a respectful distance. He was just happy to see Kym’s eyes light, the rosy complexion of her skin return after so many days spent in a harsh winter only she could see. _

_ This time, though, someone else had come. _

_ Kym narrowed her eyes at the fourth addition, merely allowing herself a terse greeting before pulling Lauren off by the arm. She shot an apologetic glance behind her at the two men, and breezed off, the auburn trails of her hair disappearing up the steps, leaving Kieran and Will alone in the kitchen together. _

_ There was punctuated, pregnant silence for a few moments, then Kieran cleared his throat and smiled a little. _

_ “It’s good to see you again.” _

_ “...Yes. You too.” Will nodded reluctantly. “Holding up alright?” _

_ Kieran pursed his lips. “Yes. I’m fine.” He averted his gaze, staring down at the cream tiles on the floor. Will had the urge to do the same.  _

_ Then, surprising him, Kieran’s head rose suddenly, and he held up a finger, vanishing behind the door frame for a brief moment. _

_ He came back with a basket in his fingers, filled to the brim with rosy tulips. The petals were bunched together, little blushing stars held together by piles of twined wicker. He set it down on the countertop gingerly, gesturing to it almost helplessly. _

_ “For the both of you. I...didn’t exactly know what she wanted, but these were flowering nicely, so I thought--” _

_ “--Thank you.” Will cut in. He looked at the basket in slight incredulity, then back up at the opposite man. He could see the uncertainty in his face, the slight nervous set of his shoulders.  _

_ “Kym will like these.” He leant back against the railing of the stovetop, his fingers teasing a button on his sleeve in slight embarrassment. Kieran nodded, looking rather grateful, but still decidedly pinched with uncertainty. _

_ “They’re beautiful,” Will said. It was the truth enough--they were, pristine and perfect, the blossoms unfurling like comets and threaded with green leaves.  _

_ Kieran smiled, genuinity playing on his lips. “Thank you. I know--” _

_ He stopped. _

_ He knew how to work with flowers. _

_ Will waved a hand nervously. “It’s alright, I understand. Thank you, again.” _

_ Kieran nodded, his eyes downcast once more. Will cleared his throat, moving to pick up the wicker basket to set it by the windowsill.  _

_ “Lieutenant--” _

_ He paused in his action, turning back to Kieran with slight surprise. _

_ “Ah--Captain Hawkes, I should say now, right?” Kieran’s lips curved in a little half smile, then turned serious again. “I’m--” _

_ He paused, looked askance and drew himself up.  _

_ Will was reminded of the first day he saw him, how his eyes had looked odd, almost too cold and calculating and utterly, hopelessly blank. That wasn’t what they were here--no, now they were deeper than the ocean, wider than a chasm of hesitance. They were blue pearls set in strength and valor, of determination and decision. _

_ “I apologize for--”  _

_ He broke off, rubbing at the back of his neck. _

_ “I’m not really--” _

_ “You can call me by name, you know.” _

_ He looked up in surprise, and Will found himself smiling a little, to his astonishment, at the bemusement on Kieran’s face. _

_ “‘Captain Hawkes’ sounds rather horrid, coming from you.” He turned to him, spreading his fingers in acknowledgement. The day had shifted into dusky evening, and the light from the broad window framed them both, a picturesque painting of two unsure figures in the sunlight. _

_ “William, then.” _

_ Will frowned, silent for a few moments, letting the word process in his mind and lie stagnant in the air. Then: _

_ “Will is fine.”  _

_ He smiled a little. _

_ “My friends call me Will.” _

_ Kieran looked rather taken aback, and Will was caught in studying the open emotion on his face. Lauren had said once that Kieran was rather an open book when it came down to it, but Will hadn’t quite believed her until now. There it was, plain as day, a contortion of his handsome features that belied nothing less than abject astonishment. _

_ “You--” _

_ Will shrugged. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?” _

_ Kieran’s mouth fell open, words poised, and then he shut it again. He seemed to consider it. _

_ “Am I?” _

_ Will regarded him for a few moments. Then, a smile danced across his face.  _

_ “Yes. I consider you one.” _

_ Kieran laughed a little incredulously. “Are--” _

_ “Look.” Will waved a hand. “I’m not going to pretend to ignore--everything.” _

_ He paused. “But...seeing as I know you, somewhat--” he looked up at him under his lashes, his blue gaze searching, seeing--”I can reconcile it.” _

_ At the other man’s shocked expression, he continued.  _

_ “You make Lauren happy.” Will smiled. “And I think she makes you happy too.” _

_ Kieran looked at him blankly for a moment, then a soft smile broke out on his face. It startled Will; it was a dichotomy of emotion, like cold steel amongst soft down of flower petals. _

_ “So--I’m willing to give you a shot.” Will smiled. “Is that sufficient, White?” _

_ Kieran laughed, throwing his head back before setting his gaze on Will’s. It was warm, inviting. _

_ “Call me Kieran.” _

_ Will nodded, a small smirk playing out on his lips. _

_ “Then that’s our deal!” _

He snapped back when he heard Kym tapping a finger on the table beside him. He looked up to see her hovering over him, the ocean waves of her hair falling over her face as she looked down at him. Unconsciously he reached up a hand towards her face, stroking her jaw and running a finger gently over the apple of her cheek. 

“We’re going to help them out.” He said with finality, no argument in his voice. She nodded.

“We have to.” She turned her head into his touch, kissing his palm before drawing back, the familiar inkling of an impish grin on her face. Will knew that look too well; instinctively, he began to gather his patience.

“So, honey?” She grinned.

“Where do we begin?”

———

Kieran met Patrick Rethburn in the faint light of early morning.

He came to the acute realization that he'd never actually addressed the man in full, one to one. It had always been directed to the general room, or hidden behind an archway, when he'd heard his raspy, butter-smooth voice, the one that charmed and drew people in, so open, honest, and--quite frankly--rather one belonging to one Kieran would only be able to describe as a simpleton.

But he supposed, sitting across from him as he was now, that there was a certain genius to simple men. 

They were always rendered unassuming, something caught in the peripheral of a thousand men just like themselves, always considered but never looked into. Their voices and graces seeped into the bones of their acquaintances, filling them with momentary warmth, but they were always immediately forgotten about, until the next one came along and produced much the same affect, a cyclical way of living that left no lasting impression.

Kieran raised an eyebrow as Patrick Rethburn ensconced himself in the seat across from him on the pier, setting down a plate of rich scrambled eggs, small pearl-like grapes, and slices of toast slathered with a rather alarming amount of margarine.

"Fine morning, Mr. Sinclair-White! Isn't it?"

Kieran nodded slightly, trying to keep an acute sense of apprehension out of his regard for the man opposite. This was the man that he and Lauren had chosen to survey as a target, but he was also probably the target of a lot of other's suspicion; and that meant that a dam had already been established, between the condemned man and his oppressors.

"Pity my wife can't come--she loves the weather here." He tilted his head back, letting the brown waves of his hair upset themselves in the soft breeze emanating from the steady heartbeat of the waves beyond, the azure color glinting as the sky set itself in soft blue pearl and plump white

clouds.

" _ Does  _ she?" Kieran asked with practiced curiosity, dutifully hiding a pitiful grimace behind the lip of his coffee mug. 

Patrick turned to him, spearing egg on his fork and shoving it ungracefully in his mouth. He seemed horribly nonchalant, normal and sane. He nodded, and his young eyes sparkled with something that Kieran realized with a start was terribly familiar: fondness.

"Tina does love the ocean--always has, really. She wanted to go up to her mother’s in Greenwich, but I managed to remind her that we hadn’t been near a decent body of water since our honeymoon! That's one reason why we came--ah, it was probably yours too, no?" 

He smiled, revealing blindingly white teeth and full lips, directing his happy, puppy-dog charm fully onto Kieran. 

He nodded. "Yes. Me and my wife had never been to the coast before--and we thought it prudent to take a bit of a break." 

He leant backward, resting his back on the chair with assumed restlessness. He crossed his arms and looked out to the choppy sea, his eyes resting on the horizon beyond, where the sun reflected like a broken egg yolk on the water as it rose steadily. 

But, the vigilance never leaving, never stopping, he kept his awareness on his current partner, the unknowing second actor in the scene. He didn't miss the subtle way the other man's eyes crinkled, the way his smile slipped  _ ever  _ so slightly, as he looked with some modicum of suspicion at Kieran, the man who, in turn, must have been something of an enigma to Patrick.

"Was...that  _ all  _ you come here for, Mr. Sinclair-White?" Patrick asked, picking up a grape and twirling it in his fingers. Kieran eyed keenly the large, broad hands, the calloused knuckles and wide palms as the man popped the fruit into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Kieran chuckled, a hint of dry amusement in his face. "I see you're still rather suspicious of me,  _ Monsieur." _

Patrick laughed, hearty and booming, rich like burnished chocolate. It was disarmingly warm. 

“Well, Mr. Sinclair-White--I'm no grand Detective. But I  _ do  _ know that in books, the person who saw the deceased last is always someone of note." His voice was still boisterous and honey-smooth, but something in his eyes was sharper that it should have been, colder than frost on snowdrops. Kieran narrowed his eyes, raising a brow in a show of skepticism.

" _ I  _ happen to read quite a bit as well, Mr. Rethburn," He said, leaning forward to level Patrick with a stormy and rather sly glance, “and  _ I  _ can attest that, in fiction, it usually ends up being the person you least expect.”

Patrick laughed jovially, and Kieran sat back in his chair, spreading his fingers in a display of amicable mirth. “So—take it into account that, as I am your first suspect, I should fall on the last rung of the ladder!”

The other man continued with his laughter, his eyes crinkling generously at the corners, creating a suspended picture of happy youth, of raw amusement.

“Perhaps that’s so, sir! But then--” and suddenly his face turned serious, grave. “Who  _ do  _ you think did it?”

Kieran frowned. “I’m--well, I couldn’t quite say, Mr. Rethburn. It’s uncomfortable to think of it.”

Patrick nodded. “Neither of us are much of detectives, are we?”

_ “Well then, it’s a good thing that I am.” _

He smelled honey and the embers of a raging forest fire before he felt his wife’s delicate hand on his shoulder, and he couldn’t help the twinge of a grin that flitted across his face as she sat down beside him, carrying two loaves of bread and butter, one of which she handed to him. 

Patrick smiled warily. “Mrs. Sinclair-White…” He placed his head in a hand, his finger swiping thoughtfully over a broad chin. 

“--Chief Sinclair.”

Lauren smiled, her hand tightening briefly on Kieran’s shoulder before she dropped it to her side, fingers brushing against his knuckles in warning. He nodded imperceptibly, masking the slight set in his lips with a harsh bite into his bread.

“ _ Monsieur  _ Rethburn.” She tilted her head in acknowledgement, breaking off a bit of bread in her fingers. “Nice morning.”

“It is! I was just saying to your husband.”

She nodded, placing her hands in her lap demurely. “I’m sorry that I haven’t seen much of you since--” she stopped, pursing her lips and flicking her eyes downward. 

Patrick, too, paled a little, his once rosy cheeks turning to subtle shades of ash, his eyes darkening a little. “Right.”

Then, he was all smiles and eager breath once again. He took up another grape, inspecting it in his fingers before popping it into his mouth. “I missed you at my interrogation the other day.”

Lauren smiled a little, her brows deceptively smooth. “Ah--well, you know.” She waved a hand. “This work--I can’t be in all places at once.”

Mr. Rethburn nodded in understanding, spitting out a grape seed and, with little regard for it, tossed it to his right, watching it disappear in piles of sand and rock. “Mrs. Fairson was quite the challenge, I expect?”

Lauren chuckled slightly. “Indeed--unfortunate that there wasn’t much I could get out of her.”

Patrick looked surprised. “Really? Nothing at all?”

Lauren shook her head. “She was hysterical. I mean--” she cleared her throat in some embarrassment. 

“I see.”

“You know, in that regard,” Kieran cut in, a finger thoughtfully on his chin, “she was a very good witness for the  _ murderer.” _

_ “Oh?” _

_ “ _ I mean--think.” He looked at the two of them, waving the hand with the bread loaf resting in it, crumbs spilling. “She couldn’t really recount  _ anything,  _ could she? That gives the murderer a significant advantage.”

“That’s true.” Lauren said, nodding thoughtfully. Patrick let loose a nervous chuckle.

“Do you--have any ideas, Chief Sinclair? Has the police come up with anything?”

Lauren chewed her bread thoughtfully, shooting a quick glance over at Kieran before looking back at Patrick. “Well—they’ve found Admiral Challenger’s ledger at the scene of the crime— _ and  _ a revolver, if that interests you.”

Patrick looked interested. “A revolver?”

“Yes. I’m inclined to believe it’s the one she was shot with.”

Then, suddenly, she leaned forward, her hair draping over her shoulders and framing the vaguely dangerous set to her face, like a curtain of crimson falling in waves over a tiger’s clenched jaw. Kieran smiled as Patrick flinched backward a little, noting the way his hands twitched in a nervous spasm. 

_ Almost like— _

“That’s one question I’ve been meaning to ask you,  _ Monsieur— _ obviously I couldn’t get anything out of the other person who found the body. But  _ you—“ _

She stopped, drawing back slightly, a curious note in her voice. “Could you tell me if, when you found the body, she’d been shot already?”

Patrick paused, his eyes drawing skyward in seeming consideration. Then, he looked back down at her.

“ **Couldn’t say, I’m sorry** **_Madame.”_ ** He rubbed the back of his neck in sheepish embarrassment,  **“I was too shaken up, I’m afraid.”**

Kieran knew his wife well. He knew the look she got in her face when someone lied. She made that face now; her brows rose, her breath stalled and her eyes shone. He immediately trained his gaze on Mr. Rethburn, waiting for the move he’d make that would decide all. 

“Try and recall,  _ Monsieur.”  _ Lauren said, her voice dangerously calm. “It’s imperative that we recount the events of the death almost exactly.”

“Ah—well. There was a lot of blood—so I’d assumed that she’d been...you know.” 

“Quite. Well—“ she trailed off, picking at her bread—“I’m sorry to bring up uncomfortable memories.”

Patrick grimaced, hands clenched in front of him. “ **It’s horrid. What they did.”**

Kieran nodded. “It is—“

He turned to his wife and stopped. Her face had adopted a positively murderous expression. His heart seized in anxiety, and he turned back to the opposite man with a school of practiced indifference on his face.

“I mean—murdering a woman like that.” He sighed. “I meant what I said. When I catch who did it  **I’d like to take them myself.”**

_ “I’m sure there’s no need for that.”  _ Lauren’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing with something unknown. 

Patrick nodded reluctantly, looking between the two of them. “You two aren’t all that worried?”

“Why would we be?”

“I mean--there’s a murderer loose, no?” He cocked his head. “I’m worried for me and my wife, anyhow.”

“Are you?”

Patrick reeled back. “What--?”

“ _ All we’re saying is--” _ Kieran cut in, a warning hand on his wife’s arm--”is that it didn’t seem that way when you were--”

“Oh  _ don’t  _ start on that with me.” He looked angry now, his teeth knitted in exasperation. “The whole  _ hotel’s  _ been giving me these looks--I quite despise it.”

“Well don’t you think it’s justified,  _ Monsieur?”  _ Lauren asked, her voice hard. “You weren’t exactly  _ subtle  _ about--”

“I want to make something clear.” He leaned across the table, and suddenly his jovial nature shifted a little, to something a bit more sinister, his broad stature now encompassing and commanding. Lauren jerked backward a little, and Kieran’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I love my wife.”

That declaration sat in the air, a contested thing that raised doubt in Kieran’s mind. But sneaking a glance over at Lauren, he could tell that at least this time, he wasn’t lying.

“I just--I love her so much, I  _ do _ .” He sat back, the bear defeated. “But--with Aria--” 

He looked out to sea, the forlorn nature washing off of him as if he’d been doused in saltwater. “I don’t know, really. **It was like--a blinding infatuation. A kind of--obsession.”**

He turned to Kieran , almost pleading. “You understand, right sir? With a woman like that--?”

“ _ I can assure you, Mr. Rethburn,”  _ Kieran said, his voice colder than frost, “that I cannot understand in the slightest.”

Sensing that he was outnumbered, Patrick rose, tilting his chin. “I see.”

Then, he strode off without much fanfare, leaving the plate of grapes and toast neglected on the table. The couple watched him walk away, eyes never leaving his figure as he disappeared behind the rhododendron planters, into the lobby doors and beyond their line of sight.

Then, in a spasm, Lauren gripped his arm, fury alight in her eyes.

_ “Board.  _ Now.”

———

“What the  _ hell--” _

_ “Look.”  _ She was pacing back and forth in the closet, her feet kicking aside stray cut threads of red yarn and strewn clothes. 

“We knew, didn’t we? And  _ yet--”  _ She fisted her fingers in her hair. “God--”

“Okay--calm down.” He held out his fingers placatingly, like trying to appease a rabid animal. She looked at him balefully, but he dismissed her irritation, merely raising an eyebrow and walking steadily toward the corkboard, red strings caught in his fingers like those on a violin, delicate and cobweb-thin.

“So he  _ is  _ the murderer.”

“Without a shadow of doubt.” Lauren grimaced. “But we have  _ nothing,  _ Kieran! Just my knowledge and the observations we’ve gathered won’t be enough, even for these people--”

“I  _ know.”  _ He growled, throwing his head back. “We need some sort of definitive action plan, something to gather more information.”

“ _ Shit,  _ Kieran, we need a  _ motive  _ as well.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t really understand, you know--when he said he loved his wife--all those times--”

“He was telling the truth.”

“So--” she paused, her eyes widening. “Does that mean that he was  _ pretending?” _

She looked up suddenly. “Listen.” 

She strode over, dragging Kieran down by the lapel of his shirt, lowering them until they were whispering alone in the dark room. He couldn’t help but smile.

“You know we don’t need to whisper--”

“Just  _ shut up-- _ listen, there’s this thing that’s been nagging me.” She bit her lip, her eyes straying to his.

“What you said out there was exactly what I was thinking—Mrs. Fairson  _ was  _ the perfect witness.” She waved her hands.

“She is, by nature, hysterical—so she wouldn’t remember anything at all—and her skirts.” She illustrated with a grand, sweeping motion, and Kieran laughed in understanding.

“—it would make for impaired movement.” He nodded. “To give time for Patrick to shoot Aria.”

“ _ God, _ when you say it out loud—“

“I know.” He grimaced, a hand coming up to grasp at her wrist. 

“But there’s something else—“ she pauses, looking down. “What role did his wife play?”

Kieran considered it. “We know she was covering for him by insinuating blackmail—but how does that—“

“What if—what if  _ Patrick  _ was the blackmailer?” She looked up, her eyes wide. “We know he didn’t really care for Aria in the first place—perhaps the  _ both  _ of them were using her to get money?”

“So you think they followed her down here?” 

“Most likely.”

Kieran scoffed a little. “To what—kill her? Bit risky, no?”

“Well, risks can be calculated things.” Lauren frowned, curving a finger thoughtfully over her lip. They stayed in silence for innumerable moments, processing the new information.

Kieran rose, throwing up his hands. “I suppose we should have known when the only testimony we could rely on was  _ his. _ I mean—I’d thought it looked too much like a painting for my liking.”

He looked down at his wife. “Hell, if there hadn’t been strangulation marks we could have even ruled it a  _ suicide,  _ that’s how flimsy it was.”

He turned back to the board. “So—“

But then he stole a glance at Lauren, and noticed that she’d stilled, her figure unmoving. She was staring at a spot beyond his shoulder, her eyes blazing with the races of thought. He watched her pretty face scrunch, her eyes widen in sudden realization. Slowly, she turned to him.

“Kieran—“

She walked towards him, and looked at her nervously. “Darling—?”

Then, surprising him, she held his face in her hands and kissed him fervently. 

It was brief, even chaste, by all means, but when she reeled back the ardor behind it left him feeling like he’d been punched, her traitorous fingers still resting on his bicep.

“ _ Subordinate—“  _ she grinned wildly. “You’ve just given me—hold on.” She held up a finger, making for the closet door in wild abandon. 

“ _ Wait here.” _

She left him in the dark, still reeling from the phantom press of her lips on his, and when she returned she did with expressive excitement. 

In her hand she held several leaflets, which Kieran found himself recognizing almost immediately.

Copies of the Allory case files, the ones she’d brought when they first came here.

“ _ What—“ _

_ “Look here.”  _ She pressed herself to his side, looping an arm around his shoulder to bring him down so he could see the text printed. It was a report of the crime scene, described in dry detail as all police reports are. 

Several sentences jumped out immediately, and as Lauren’s finger drifted across the sheets of paper, Kieran began to understand.

_ The Allory’s were found shot dead in their bedroom.  _

_ The maid who found them expressed that she hadn’t heard any gunshots, and that she was surprised, because they had been known to be a very close couple. _

_ She also claimed that they had been having money troubles—as evidenced by the files found in their safe, indicating forges bank statements. _

_ A weapon was found—a single revolver, with a handkerchief inside to stifle the noise. _

_ The maid had happened across the bodies along with one of her colleagues, another parlor maid, who she’d directed to call the police in at once. When dispatchers arrived, the maid in question was unable to give a stable testimony. _

_ The primary witness had been employed at the Allory’s estate for just over two months. _

_ The death was ruled a murder-suicide by the Ardhalis High Court on Tuesday, June 25th, XX37. _

“Lauren…” He looked over at her, his face serious. “Are you saying—?”

“I  _ think—“  _ she said decisively, one hand on her hip and another still clutching his shoulder—“that this is more than just a matter of coincidence.”

“So—“ he looked down, then back at her. 

“Thank you for the idea, subordinate.” She smiled. “Would you be willing to give them to me more often?”

“Kiss me like you did every time and maybe I’ll concede to be more generous,  _ mon amour.”  _

_ “Really.” _

Then, his face turned grave, all mirth bleeding out. “What’s your plan, Lauren?”

She sighed, looking at him, then the board where black and white lay in abstract, red trailing through the brittle cork. Then, back at her husband. She seemed to make a decision within herself.

“I have something. Listen—“

And she cups her hand around his ear, whispers her secrets to him in the flickering light of a candle.

She tells him.

He reels backward, face caught in spasms of concern. “ _ Officer.” _

_ “It’s our best shot.”  _ Her eyes narrowed. “Are you willing to trust me?”

“ _ Mon cœur,  _ you know I trust you—“ he reached up to cup her cheek, tilt her chin until their gazes met. 

“—but if you go and get yourself hurt I’m going to have to draw a line.”

“I  _ won’t _ .”

“You  _ better  _ not.” He growls. “If you die without me we’re going to have issues, officer.”

She smiled. “I know.”

Kieran was still tense. “Look--this man--he seems.” 

He paused, searching for the words to say. Then, he straightened, clutching at her shoulders in seeming desperation.

“I know killers, Lauren.”

She couldn’t help the sardonic laugh that escaped her, and he raised an eyebrow.

“I’m being serious,  _ mon coeur. Listen-- _ I’m sure those two will stop at nothing.” 

He gestured down to the papers still in her hand. “You saw--”

“I  _ know--”  _ she paused. “But--”

And she reached up to cup his jaw, her eyes smiling up at him from underneath fluttering lashes. She would be the death of him, that was certain. 

“You’re here with me. I’m not worried in the slightest,  _ mon bonheur.” _

She smiled, throwing back her chin in defiance.

“We get out of things alive, Kieran.”

He regarded her, then allowed the soft tilt of his lips that had been building to emerge from behind the worry in his face.

“We get out things alive, officer.” He affirmed. 

Then, Kieran sighed, flashing her an impish grin, his eyes dancing with the familiar spark of roguish promise.

“Then--I’m all for it.”

She nodded, grasping his collar and pulling him towards her, her breath ghosting over him in a taunting wisp, all honey and the rage of a silent fire.

“Let’s do it then, subordinate.” She nods, her eyes blazing with thrill. He matches her, both of them looking back towards the board, the light of the candle swaying over the wide cork.

“Let’s play the cat and mouse game.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *watches Kieran get really concerned when Lauren’s head hurts in episode 50*
> 
> *sighs* you know I had to do it to em’
> 
> SKA is canon y’all no I don’t accept constructive criticism
> 
> \- This chapter is kinda eh,,, but I promise the next few will be very spicy trust in your Peachie 
> 
> \- Some Kywi lime pie for y’all on this fine day! Hope you enjoy your meal because I enjoyed writing it :)
> 
> \- You see where everything starts to come together??? Huh??? Big brain time folks
> 
> \- Palm Leaves: victory. Olive branches: peace. Pink tulips: Caring, good wishes, Friendship
> 
> \- You’ll notice that the chapter count has changed to 17. That’s because I know what I’m doing now huzzah! Settle in for the last four chapters of AAoCaA, boys and girls! 
> 
> I’d kept it a relative secret but it’s been leaked now so here goes: I have an art instagram! If you want some b u l l s h i t go give it a little follow: @artsofisha 👉👈
> 
> I’m also VERY active on there so if you hmu I will def reply and you can talk with me about random things idc :)
> 
> As always comments/kudos are succulent grapes <3
> 
> Insta: @artsofisha  
> Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com
> 
> -thumbipeach


	14. Wasp’s Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what you have to do?”

Sir Evan Bessly opened his notebook to a fresh new page, his eyes roving over the blank parchment, absent of words and the spills of stray ink blots.

And then immediately closed it with a huff, his brows drawing inwards with irritation. He rubbed his forehead to ease the tension that had built like an archer’s bowstring, carding a hand through salt-and-pepper tendrils of hair, rapidly receding further backward from his hairline.

Nothing _seemed_ substantial enough anymore. He’d somehow managed to reach a roadblock, an impasse in his many pages of ramblings. 

What _was_ he to write about? How murder was the cardinal sin? How even in death people can be evil beyond a shadow of doubt, can still exert influence on those left behind?

“No.” He shook his head. _That wasn’t it._

Because wasn’t there more to it, now? There seemed to be more than simple _murder_ going on here--the situtation had layers, like a tart cherry cake with thin slips of frosting, topped off with the offending fruits in an almost taunting gesture of amity towards the person trying to get to the bottom of the whole mess.

“That woman,” he says it out loud, his voice rough and unused in the evening light, “was evil.”

He set down his pen, looking out of his window, towards the rushing cliffs that led down to the Fae’s Cove in sloping curves, the faint horizon beyond.

It feels like he’s made a proclamation to nobody and nothing, that for all the reach that most words have this one was rendered glaringly obvious.

“Was she evil?” 

He continues to audibly dictate, his back leaning against the back of his chair, his eyes closed in reverence. Sunlight from the open window beats down on his face.

“I called her evil. I called her evil, and yet--"

He threw back his head, opening his eyes to look at the ceiling.

"Does the sin of murder cancel out all she'd been?"

He called it out to his empty hotel room, and, as is the wont of a room sans extra occupants, the declaration was met with a significant lack of reception. It near echoed, his words reflected back to him as though he were speaking to a mirror, watching his lips move in twin gestures of silence.

He sighed, scratching the tip of his quill absently against the parchment, the haphazard strokes creating straggling lines on the corners of the sheet. The inky marks began to resemble the charred remains of trees, the fickle geometry of barren branches curving and crinkling upward, upward, and he kept going despite knowing that he was only wasting his supply of paper.

"What exactly, Evan, do you begin to write regarding this affair?" He leant forward, still speaking to himself.

He huffed. "I can just quite see it now! 'There is evil _anywhere_ in the country of Ardhalis.'"

Then, he stopped, and considered it more thoroughly.

"No," he shook his head, "I don’t think that’s quite accurate—evil is present as long as there are humans to make it.”

That sounded good, now. He nodded his head in momentary triumph, writing it down quickly, cocking his head rather like a curious spaniel to study the lines created by his quill.

Then, he sighed for the umpteenth time, pushing back his chair resolutely as he neglected his paperwork, thoroughly at a blockade, this time.

He paced for a bit, his bare feet scuffing the shag rug below with unfailing clockwork noises, the fabric twisting as his toes dug into the down of brown wool.

“Why is it all happening here?”

_There._ That was the question his tongue had been edging to, the one that had ached to be bled out of his lips. He stopped in the middle of his room, the center of a yellow decal in the rug encasing his figure, and thumbed his chin with impatience.

“ _Somehow--_ it’s all come to a head here.” He looked up.

“What forces dictated that? Why here, and now, and all at once?”

He looked out of his balcony window. It was much like the one in all the upper rooms; large, checkerboard borders lined individual squares of glass, tinted blush red or soft yellow depending on the time of day, allowing copious amounts of light to filter in and warm the bed in the center. Striding over to it, upsetting a couple of sheets of parchment in the wake of his movements, he clicked the latch open and stepped outside.

The startling scent of saltwater and the faint blanket of humidity fell over him almost immediately, and as he rested his elbows on the rail he let the feeling of the seashore wash over him as if it were a wave in itself. 

He closed his eyes, allowing the world to be shrouded in darkness.

A memory, of a night similar in atmosphere and no less comforting, came to him, rose in his mind unbidden.

It was when he was a boy; and his father had gone out to brave the impending doom of pins and an insect’s wrath to remove a wasp nest that had taken root in their front tree. It was disturbing the peace; the mailman had almost walked away with more red blotches on his neck than letters in his hand that morning. So, the nuisance had to be quelled.

His mother hadn’t wanted him to go near, but being the rambunctious boy he was he’d extricated himself from her grip, trampling over her skirts as he dashed further to the side of the house, clutching the wooden walls in grubby fingers as he watched his father, broad back shining with moonlight, attempting to hook the gnarled grey tissue of the begrudgingly well-engineered den of wasps.

He’d ventured nearer, his eyes catching on a single wasp, hovering above the scene. He’d wondered dully, before he dismissed the character from his head, if the insect was watching his home’s structure fall to the ground and feeling resentment, if he watched the picture being painted in oil and tempera and felt any sort of emotional nameable to a human; if the wasp felt anger, trepidation, guilt.

But then that thought was gone, and it was just another silly wasp, brutish and unfeeling, insignificant when faced with the knowledge that there was a whole nest of them to deal with.

But as he’d drawn closer, and closer, and the humidity had built up like waves, he felt before he heard the prick and buzz beside his ear.

Screams, of course. His mother’s wails. Then, more buzzing, more yelling, and he’d woken the next morning in his bed to find his mother, through with reciting prayers and grasping the sheets in clasped hands, telling him that all was well; that the wasps were absent from the house, and they would never again set foot there.

When Mr. Bessly opened his eyes to find his childhood lawn replaced with rocks and the high tide of ocean foam, he was struck with the jarring memory of it. How it’d made a lasting imprint on him, because even now, he was cautious around wasps’ nests, as every rational being should be.

So why--?

“ _Ah.”_ He smiled, rather calm in the face of the stark realization he’d just had. 

“Because that’s what this is, then.” He nodded to himself. 

“This business--the evil that collects here. It is like a wasp’s den.”

He twisted on his heel, dashing for his quill and ink, nearly slipping and falling on the rug in his haste. He picked up the pen, and began to write, scribble his thoughts furiously before they slipped out of his mind, wet cloth falling from a clothesline.

_Evil collects. It draws in and builds up until the honeycomb is formed. Then, it defends itself, unknowingly drawing in the innocent with its fierce protective nature, and they--those innocent--they fall prey to it, the allure of absolute security in the mind of the hive._

_Evil is as pervasive as a single wasp, and once it amasses others there is nothing stopping it but sheer and foolish bravery._

_It’s everywhere, and ignoring it only causes it to fester._

He stepped back, eyeing the words keenly, like an artist examining a particularly offensive ink blot.

Then, he shook his head, crumbling the paper in his fingers and tossing it in the waste basket beside his desk, an exasperated wisp of breath tumbling out of him before he could quell his irritation at the lack of creativity he chose to stew in.

He resolved that he would go outside for some fresh air; _real_ fresh air, not the humid one that reminded him of wasps and the noir of those fleeting moments of unconsciousness, the one that had previously lain trapped in his boyhood. 

He decided that he would grab a pear from the fruit bowl in the lobby and sit himself outside, in the same chair where he’d talked with the Sinclair-Whites and Mrs. Rethburn the first day here. Yes, that is what he’d do.

With the thought of those latter two entities, he stopped in his tracks. Grit his teeth. He hadn’t managed to speak with them after the body was found, but he still did remember Mrs. Sinclair-White’s bold voice, her demeanor even as she’d managed to hide a trembling fist behind her back.

_Foolish bravery._

Then, with one final look out towards the open balcony window, he left his room, the door locking shut behind him.

Inside, the sheer white curtains swayed with sunshine and the faint pangs of a drawling wind.

There was no indication that a storm was on the horizon. There rarely were storms in southern Ardhalis, in fact. 

But something in the air gave Mr. Bessly a sense of foreboding. That there would be water and thunder and lighting and all the wraths of the gods that night, as the stars took to the sky and claimed their places in it, so passing judgement on the people who could only look up and marvel at their steadfastness.

How strange a premonition.

And so, just to test his hubris and his faith, he’d left the window open, for the false rain to blow through, to soak the rug in the salty dregs of the ocean and the claps of thunder.

A storm was coming. 

He could feel it, in his bones. And there was one thing he knew about himself; he was rarely wrong about storms, unlike his previous judgement of a single, unassuming wasp.

A storm was coming.

———

Lauren Sinclair-White ripped open the sepia letter covering with gloved fingers, her digits pitched with excitement. 

She’d gone downstairs to check the mailboxes in the lobby and had found it sitting there placidly, the scent of her friends’ apartment--goldenrod and wisps of Will’s fabric softener--still sticking resolutely to the pages, reminding her of home.

She grinned as she unfolded the parchment, immediately coming face to face with the juxtaposed sight of Kym’s near-illegible hand, and Will’s straight and neat one, twined on the page in alternating paragraphs.

Her eyes roved over the text, uncovering bit by bit of information as she went. One line stuck out to her: the one she’d sent the missive for in the first place.

_The bullet is from Greenwich--what I’d thought when I’d first saw it. They make them out there with a special finish, that’s how I knew. You know I’m always right!_

_-Kym_

_Ignore her. Well, no, don’t--what she said is useful. We’ve also managed to attach some more of the cases to--_

“Got something interesting in the mail, Lauren?”

She whirled to find Rosa Darnley staring her down, arms folded neatly in front of her in a show of mock submission. 

She was clad in an alarming shade of red, a rash crimson tulle that draped down her form lovingly; and yet somehow despite the searing color she managed to look abjectly beautiful, like a lost maiden drowning in rust. Rubies rested delicately on her wrists and dangled from her ears, and they caught the faint light from the front door as her neck twisted, the earrings dropping from her lobes like perfect pearls of blood.

And yet her eyes were still the soft, sharp things Lauren had affixed to her impression of the latent harpy that was Rosa.

Lauren smiled rather tersely, trying to keep her fingers from clenching too tightly and wrinkling the pages. “Yes, actually.”

She laughed a little, waving the letter in demonstration. “I’d sent something to my friend--and she replied just now.”

“Oh?” Rosa smiled, coming up beside her to reach into the little cubicle where her own mail lay. As she thumbed through her own letters, she continued to amicably converse with Lauren; but something in it was off. She could tell that her mind was elsewhere.

“Ah--” she held up a letter with a rather ratty looking seal. “This woman--she wasn’t happy with the alterations I did.”

Lauren pursed her lips in sympathy as Rosa rattled the letter impatiently. 

“That’s the _third_ time--ah, but no matter.” She smiled in a mixture of displeasure and acceptance. “I like that bodice she makes me work on. It has these nice pearl insets and—“

“Rosa.” Lauren stopped her, something in her tone causing Rosa to rear back her head, level her eyes with molten gold and try not to be swallowed by it.

“Are you alright?” Lauren asked, her voice clarion and set. Rosa laughed nervously.

“ **Of course, I’m alright--”**

“Ah--” Lauren sighed. “Don’t try me, now.”

Rosa frowned, her lips taking on a sour note. “Can’t you take my word for it when I say that? God, sometimes--it’s like you can tell if I’m lying.”

Lauren raised her eyebrow, saying nothing. “You discredit how animated your face is, friend.”

Rosa stood silently for a few moments, toying with the cuff on her sleeve that clasped crimson to her wrist, a nervous tic Lauren could tell was weather-worn, a thing done often. It was a wonder her sleeves weren’t frayed terribly.

“Look.” She turned to Lauren with startling ferocity, the sound of paper scratching together deafening in the otherwise peaceful lobby. 

“The police are breathing down Ken’s neck.” 

Lauren sighed. “I’m aware--”

“Are they founded, in their suspicion?” She looked something akin to silent murder, and Lauren suddenly realizes that if she didn’t know exactly the track she was on, she’d have drawn her attention to Rosa. Her hands were dainty enough, not for strangling--but her demeanor was set, a bird of prey clad in deceptive silk and lace, flowers curving up a beak that could sever if she so wished.

Lauren met her stormy countenance with one of her own, drawing herself up until the two women were face to face. “I’m afraid--that somehow, they are.”

“I find that to be unfair. **He was--”**

Lauren sighed curtly, cutting off the impending lie with a wave of her hand. “His ledger was found at the crime scene--”

“It was stolen from him.”

“And _how_ can you ascertain that--?”

“Because he told me as such!” She wrung her hands, the fingers drawing together like bows of a violin, faint needlepoint marks on the pads of them. 

Lauren couldn’t help the consequent draw of her brows, the faint sympathy she felt towards Rosa; someone who was, no matter how much she tried to deny it, in love with a rather difficult waif to pin.

_Didn’t she know the thorny wood she was walking, like a second home, her own refuge, too?_

“Rosa.” She set down the letter on the countertop, bringing her hands up to steady her friend’s arms, the twin feeling of soft fabric and strong, set skin from underneath her black gloves nearly jarring her. Rosa inhaled sharply for a moment, then relaxed as she looked squarely into Lauren’s calm eyes.

“I understand.” She bit her lip. “If--it’s any small amount of consolation--personally I think Admiral Challenger is out of the picture.”

Rosa’s eyes lit with something akin to a warring hope. “Do you--”

Lauren drew her in, lowered her voice to conspiratorial whisper. She made a show of looking about the room, ascertaining just how many of the four-paneled walls had ears. Then, turning back to her companion, she pleaded earnestly.

“Like I said, my word isn’t exactly trumping Captain Andrès’ anytime soon. But I’m fairly confident in my assumptions.” She smiled slightly, nodding in kind assurance.

“I’ve ruled _Monsieur_ out.”

Rosa looked at her searchingly for a long moment, then she finally let down her walls. Her shoulders sagged with relief, and she looked gratefully at Lauren. 

Then, her face turned grave once again. “But where exactly is that going to get--”

“ _Oh.”_ Lauren waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

_They would, wouldn’t they? Soon, now._

Rosa shook her head. “I’d hope so.” She picked nervously at the high collar of her dress. “It’s starting to become really stifling here. I wish I could go into town and just-- _get away_ from it all.”

“And hitch a boat ride?” Lauren smiled ruefully. “I get that.”

Then, Lauren whirled on her. “Don’t think I don’t know that you were wholly prepared to lie through your teeth to me.”

Rosa reeled backwards as though she’d been punched. “ _You--”_

_“Ohh--”_ she waved a finger, “I understand, I get it. You _know_ you can’t do that with me.”

“But--”

Lauren shook her head. “Ever heard of not deceiving the police, Rosa? I know your type-- _oh don’t shake your head like that--_ I know what you’d be willing to do.”

At the apparent absence of genuine antagonism on the other woman’s face, Rosa sighed slightly, smiling softly as her cheeks flecked with pink. “I suppose so.”

Rosa sighed, then, holding out her hands. “He’d had it bad. His first marriage didn’t end very well--and then he goes off and marries the most _insufferable--”_

“Why _did_ he marry her?” Lauren asked, truly curious. She cocked her head, frowned a little. 

Rosa sighed in exasperation. “I’m not sure. He’s always had this-- _bloody_ savior complex, of sorts.” She laughed harshly. “I’m sure he saw that _poor woman_ after her fiancee jilted her and thought he could--”

She shook her head. “But I don’t think that’s my place to say. It’s his thing to deal with.”

Lauren considered the woman in front of her for some time. Then:

“You’re a good friend.”

Rosa looked up sharply, and Lauren merely danced her fingers across her lips to hide an affectionate smile. 

“You _are,_ I think. _Monsieur_ is lucky. To have someone like you in his life.”

Rosa stared at her, her cheeks flushing a comely strawberry hue. Then, she threw back her head, showing a smile that was not blindingly perfect, but crooked where it was needed, soft and curving where it was necessary. Her smile was nice, whole. Real.

“Thank you. Perhaps I am!”

Lauren opened her mouth to continue, but was stopped by the arrival of another into the lobby.

Mrs. Rethburn breezed down the stairs in a flurry of red and burgundy; a similar hue to Rosa’s, except somehow on her it didn’t look half as good. She stopped her frantic movements when she saw the two other ladies in the room, pausing abruptly at the bottom of the landing and looking sheepish. A basket was in her hands, closed and revealing nothing.

“Ah--you two!” She smiled. “Hello. Fine evening!”

Lauren smiled and nodded; Rosa copied. They didn’t really know what to say to each other; they were mere strangers meeting in a vast, sprawling ocean, waves of doubt between them despite having inhabited the same building for nearly a week.

Mrs. Rethburn looked down at her feet, clad in large boots made better for walking through rain than on the shore. Then, she looked back up at them, leveling them with a warm coffee gaze that threw Lauren off-kilter slightly. 

It was _too_ warm, too appealing. She didn’t like it much. It wasn’t like Rosa’s--this one was set with teeth whiter than elephant’s ivory and straighter than the rows of books in a library.

“I’m sorry--I know I must look a mess.” She laughed, laying a hand on the basket. “I’m joining my husband outside-- **got some clothes to take care of.”**

Rosa nodded. “Of course, of course! I’m sorry we’re keeping you, darling.” Then, her lips pursed in a little pout. “Holding up alright, are you?”

“ _Ah--_ **yes. Quite alright, now!”** She bowed disarmingly, looking up at Lauren with something akin to bashfulness. 

“I’ll be off, then!”

And with a mere flutter of skirts, she was gone out the lobby. The two women watched her go, warring emotions on their faces. 

Rosa tsked and hummed lightly, going back to shuffling through her letters. “That woman doesn’t know how to dress. Black would look much better on her; or yellow.”

“She wears yellow often.”

“Yes, that’s true; but somehow she manages to make it look rather washed out.” She frowned. “If _I_ were to dress her, now. I’d put her in a more startling yellow, so it wouldn’t blend with her hair.”

She nodded, her fingers coming up to cup her chin, nails coated in pristine red varnish. “Yes--and pearls. She wore pearls the day before—ah, well—and she looked rather fetching in them. Perhaps--”

Lauren smiled. “I’m sure you’d do her justice.”

Rosa turned to her keenly, sensing the odd note in the other’s tone. “What--?”

‘Oh, **nothing.”** Lauren waved her fingers dismissively. “Am I keeping you?”

Rosa laughed. “Hm--you might be. I’ll be off now, O’ Chief!” 

She nudged her playfully, but not before leaning in a final time, her arm laying softly over Lauren’s shoulder.

” _Really. Thank you.”_

Lauren paused, then returned her cashmere smile. “Think nothing of it.”

Rosa nodded, walking past her and making for the door. Then suddenly, she stopped, looking balefully down at the pot of purple hyacinths still sitting tauntingly beside the front desk. 

“Let’s hope this mess is cleared, soon,” she said decidedly, nudging the pot with a pointed heel before striding out, the sounds of her shoes chiming a steady rhythm on the pavement outside.

This left Lauren to study the planter her companion had just kicked, Kym and Will’s letter still left to hang from loose, undecided fingers. She gazed at the pot of hyacinths with a keen eye, noting all nine.

A curving smile overtook her lips, and she supposed that if someone were to look at her now they would not call this smile a nice one. It was too victorious, too much like a cat that had gotten its fill of cream. Too triumphant, knowing.

_So it begins, then._

Ripping up the letter and scattering the scraps in the grate in the small room adjacent, she began to make her way up the stairs, moving with her usual quick, no-nonsense gait up the landing, her footfalls belying nothing more than practiced nonchalance, unassuming purpose and intent.

Until about halfway down the hallway, she kept the ruse of calm up. 

Then, when she’d reached her room and touched the doorknob to her room in faint, unmotivated fingers, she stopped abruptily. Looked around. And then passed her and Kieran’s room, making for the one a little ways farther down, hyacinths lining her descent to the belly of the beast.

She stopped right outside the Rethburn’s room, considering. Then, in a leap of faith befitting only the foolishly brave, she tried the handle.

Unlocked.

Entering quickly, she snapped the door shut behind her, making sure to leave a small crack for a speedy escape if needed.

Nobody would really hear her, if she got into trouble. 

_If you get hurt doing this I’m going to have some issues with it._

_Don’t worry, subordinate. You know me._

_That’s the issue, officer. I do know you. Too well, I think._

_Don’t worry about me, mon bonheur. You know all too well that only you will ever get the honor of killing me._

_Oh, but never, mon cœur. Not if you don’t return the favor._

_Noted._

Exhaling harshly at the thought of her partner’s endearing worry (though completely unfounded, might she note), she started up on the hunt, toeing her way through haphazard piles of clothes and miscellaneous trinkets scattered on the floor. 

When she’d been here last it had at least had the semblance of being neat; now it looked as though a tornado had blown through it, upsetting everything short of the hyacinth planter beside the window, still housing blooming purple and yellow bunches, unfurling petals still with the absence of wind in the gated room.

Lauren frowned, considering. She began to run through her mind, searching as her keen eyes roved the room for possible hints. 

She _could_ try the closet; but it was clear that whatever was _in_ the closet was now _out_ of it, on the floor like nascet puddles of white and black and yellow satin.

Then, hazarding a guess, she tiptoed her way to the dresser at the far end of the room, making for the topmost handle. The metal brushed her gloves and a spark of adrenaline coursed through her. 

She threw it open.

Underwear, socks. Nothing doing.

She tried all the drawers, opening them and rifling through the contents. Not much turned up.

Until she reached the last drawer. 

_“God—socks agai—oh!_ No—there’s—“

The socks had only lain over the top; further down, past brittle cloth and the faint wisps of mothballs, she dug her hand in and found exactly what she’d set out for.

She pulled, the thing unraveling itself from its bindings, turning up into the light to reveal--

A scarlet wig.

Lauren grinned in triumph. Her ecstasy was so great that she was blinded in the thrill of it; so much so that she almost failed to notice the creak of the floorboards from beyond the door. 

She stilled, clutching the stands of fake hair in tensed fingers. But the footsteps moved farther away, and she sighed in relief as she judged that she was once again alone. Her hand came up to her thigh underneath her soft blue skirts, her palm resting comfortingly on the knife strapped to it, and the other thing as well that she’d been making sure to not show.

She quickly made to stuff the wig in her pocket, tucking it under an arm as she hastened to her feet. Striding out of the room and surveying that all was as she’d left it, she closed the door once more, purposefully neglecting the lock in favor of leaving the room as it had been when she’d descended upon it.

She began down the hallway, just barely passing another cup of hyacinths, a small window to her left, her feet just teasing the lip of a rug spanning the length of the corridor.

And then, suddenly, a crushing, blinding blow from the back.

It seared into her head and caused her to yelp involuntarily in pain and alarm. It came as an abrupt shock, the shuffling footfalls muffled by an unseen shroud of deception.

Lauren was not knocked unconscious, however; no, her head was stronger than that. 

She managed to right herself, barely standing on shaky heels and near turning to face her attacker head on.

And then again, a sharp pain in much the same location, and this time she truly did lose her balance, falling backwards against a chest of drawers up against the rim of the wall. 

She could feel something rip the skin near her scalp, and as she reeled backwards she twisted, her lip catching the sharp corner of the furniture and slicing open, blood pooling, flowing in her mouth, and it was all she could taste, the bitter tang of iron and blood, blood, blood--

She cried out in helplessness, going to swipe her leg underneath in an attempt to deter the assailant, but the sharp pain in her head near blinded her to anything else. 

She clutched the rim of one of the drawers, making to rise once again on shaky feet, but she was brought down for a third time, her head banging against the varnished wood and a pressure on her waist and legs forcing her to remain immobile, prone on the floor with wool from the rug digging into the wound on her bottom lip, the fabric twisting.

And then, a sickly sweet scent, and a cloth was pressed tightly over her lips, muffling the indignant cry that had burst forth and smearing her blood further into the commissure. 

She brought her hands up to wrap around the wrist now pressing chloroform into her nostrils, and tried in vain to pry it off of her, all instincts going haywire, pleading and bleating with her limbs to move, to extricate herself from the situation like she’d been taught to so many years ago. 

But as the haze of sleep came closer and closer yet, her expression changed. She stopped abruptly, her grip loosening. It nearly pained her more than the blows to her head to resist the urges that had been drilled into her head, but she held steadfast, her fingers beginning to go slack around the assailant’s wide wrist.

Now, in understanding her actions here it was important to note this: Lauren Sinclair’s mind worked very quickly. 

It was what had made her an outstanding detective and surprisingly, an even better officer, besides her obvious ability. She could run through a situation in her head as fast as lightning strikes aflame, and she could reach at a chance just as well. 

She reacted like a cheetah rising to the chase, and knew when and where to sink her fangs.

And so, as she slowly began to give into the cloying haze, the buzzing of waning consciousness like a horde of incessant wasps, two rapid conclusions were reached in the Chief of Police’s brilliant mind.

Firstly: she knew who this was. 

She knew by the broad hands and the stifling pressure and the raised veins she could see working to hold the cloth against her nose, knew by the pressure on her back and the huffs of exerted breath she could hear from behind her. And she knew that struggling, doing what she knew she could to get out of this and running to the police, would never give her the answers she and Kieran so desperately needed. 

And she—and Kieran—knew all too well that Lauren Sinclair was the type of woman to sacrifice anything short of her unflagging, stubborn pride to get what she wanted. 

So, she made the decision to give up her hold, lean into the nauseating feeling of the drug and think only of the future outcome.

But there was another thing she knew with absolute certainty, and though she’d never admit it to herself, this thought came even before the former, solidified before anything else her mind could produce.

No matter where she’d go, no matter what happened to her, she knew this as truth:

Kieran would come for her.

He’d find her, no matter what.

_He always did._

And so, with those two facets of the case duly concluded, Lauren Sinclair let go of the fight, the pride in her that kept her blazing, and allowed herself to succumb to the static and white noise, leaning into it like she would have her lover’s touch.

All was quiet. No more cogs turned.

At least, for now.

———

Kieran Sinclair-White ran through the chateau main with light, swift feet, a small black box clutched in his fingers.

There was a spark in his eyes, a lit match in his azure gaze that had not been there for some years now. It was the thrill of the hunt, the predatory adrenaline that would always lie dormant in his bones, waiting for the chance for when he would throw on his shrouded mantle once again, name himself what he knows a part of him will always be.

He rounds the corner and makes for the bar, hip nearly colliding with a rhododendron planter in his haste. But, quickly righting himself, he continues onward, past the cloying scent of flowers and fear and towards the belly of his own beast.

He enters through the open archway, breathless and panting, strands of hair falling out of his braid. He straightened, noting the startled face of just the person he’d been hoping to find.

Angelina’s expression was contorted in alarm and astonishment, her arms paused in the action of cleaning a beer glass, fresh with the dregs of the drink. Kieran noted it, his eyes narrowing in discreet triumph.

_So._

_“Ms. Desmond.”_

His breathless tone filled the empty bar, and Angelina looked at him in mild shock. 

“ _Monsieur_ Sinclair-White--what on _earth--?”_

“I’m so sorry about this—but _listen_ _for a moment.”_

Striding over to her and around the bar to meet her head on, he looked around surreptitiously, assessing the room, though for all intents and purposes it was bereft but for the two of them. 

Then, grabbing her suddenly by an arm, he ducked behind the bar countertop and began to whisper fervently, a feverish excitement clouding his gaze and leaving Angelina reeling in his enthusiasm.

“I’m going to need your help with something, _Mademoiselle._ Would you be willing to assist me?”

Angelina now looked thoroughly bewildered, her face sewn with confusion.

“ _Bien sur, Monsieur--_ I’m here for that--what do you nee--?”

“ _No--_ I’m afraid this is something rather unorthodox,” he said, cutting off her rambling with a wave of his fingers, once again lowering his voice until Angelina had to strain to hear the deep, smooth baritone, nary a stray breath in an air tinged with apprehension.

“Your cooperation--it’s very important. I’m going to be asking you to do something a bit odd. Now, again: _are you willing?”_

Angelina blinked at him. Blinked again. He could see the wheels in her mind turning visibly, her lips pursed.

Then, Kieran’s initial judgement of her, the one he’d been basing this operation on, was affirmed with flying colors. Her expression shifted; instead of blank and aghast, it was now decidedly keen, her eyes narrowed.

_She was quick, too._

“What exactly would we be talking about?” She asked, breathless. He grinned.

“Well.” He looked around again, then turned back to his companion. “My wife and I are-- **doing a little experiment.** And I’m going to need your help for it.”

She nodded, albeit with slight reluctance. “An experiment?”

He smiled, rising swiftly and looking towards the kitchen door. Then, he looked back at her. 

“You know the layout of this hotel, surely. Could you tell me which room is directly below me and my wife’s?”

Angelina considered it for a moment, then raised herself up as well, brushing down her skirts of small flecks of dust before straightening, beckoning to him with a finger as she made to move behind the kitchen door.

“Come--if I’m correct, it should be through here.”

He followed her into the kitchen, past the stovetop where little bits of salmon lay cooking in a pool of oil in a pan. Angelina dithered slightly, waving a hand at the intense stench of seafood that permeated the room and moving to adjust the stove to off.

“I’m so sorry about the smell, _Monsieur,_ I know--”

But Kieran merely waved a hand, overtaking her once they reached the end of the hallway, which led up to a single door in the back. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine--just--come here.”

Angelina looked rather taken aback. “But--”

“It’s hardly anything, Ms. Desmond, really.”

He stepped into the room, surveying its contents. It was simply a back storage area; it held a couple of shelves lined with flour and coffee grounds, small containers of cinnamon and allspice, and a little box in the corner with packets of sugarcubes. A small table lay in the dead center, a green china vase of valerian bunches in the center, receiving sunlight from the tiny window to the left.

Angelina switched on the overhead light with a soft click, and the room illuminated itself, so suddenly that it took the both of them a while to adjust to the sudden excess of brightness.

Angelina frowned. “This should be directly above your room--if a little offset from it.” She looked over at him, eyeing the box in his hands. “What exactly--”

He smiled, setting the box on the table and beckoning her to come closer. She did, and as she trained her eyes on the black cardboard he lifted the lid. 

“Here--” and he held up a little black remote, silver buttons lining the sides--”is part of a recording device. Are you familiar with it?”

To his mild surprise, Angelina smiled knowingly, taking the remote from his fingers. “You’d be surprised how many people use these here.” 

She smiled sardonically. “Who’s cheating on who, and all that.”

Kieran blinked, then let loose a slight peal of laughter, throwing his head back in mirth. “Really? Well, that makes _my_ job a little easier--”

He leant forward, tapping a finger against the button closest to the top. “You press this, and it will start the recording in the corresponding tape. Press the one below it, and you’ll stop it. Understood?”

Angelina nodded.

“Good. Now--” he looked up at the ceiling, at the slightly peeling wallpaper and the faintest hint of glistening cobwebs, strings of spiders and dust bunnies. It was an old room--one that didn’t see the light of day often.

“--how well can you hear through this ceiling?” He pointed.

Angelina tilted her head thoughtfully. “Well--I’m sure not too well.”

She turned to him and smiled sardonically. “This wouldn’t be much of a hotel if you could hear everything that was going on through the walls, no _Monsieur?”_

Kieran looked faintly amused. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose that’s so.”

Then, he whirled on her. “Could you hear movement?”

Angelina frowned. “If it were harsh enough, yes.”

“Perfect!” Kieran smiled, then leaned forward again, palms flat on the table, bangs falling in front of his eyes. 

“Then listen--I’ll be in the room upstairs. I’ll give some sort of signal--perhaps--”

And he brought his foot decisively down onto the wooden floorboards, the muffled thud reverberating in the cramped room. 

“--that. When you hear that--and this is important--I’ll need you to start the recording. Press the top button.”

Angelina’s lips pursed. “And keep it going--?”

“Ah--if at all possible--oh, but--”

He frowned, considering it, turning the situation and the possibilities over in his mind. Then, he shook his head vehemently. “No, on second thought--”

He bit his lip in thought, then looked back at his companion. “Alright then—keep the recording going for as long as indicated. If I tap again, or my wife does—and you’ll hear her heels—stop it.”

Angelina nodded once again, looking down at the device in her hand. She looked as though she was positively bursting with questions, and just as she parted her lips to voice them, she hesitated, looking at Kieran with a critical eye.

“I’m getting this feeling—”

“Hm?”

“That there isn’t any room for question, here.”

Kieran laughed, spreading his fingers. “Not in _here_ \--it’s too small, isn’t it?”

Angelina laughed nervously, the remote clutched in her fingers. 

Then, chuckling a bit to himself, he pulled a golden pocket watch out of his trouser pocket, glancing at it before nodding an affirmative. “No time, either.”

He looked at her fiercely, and once again it seemed she should tread carefully with the man she’d once deemed calm and quiet. 

Now, his demeanor was decidedly determined, the severity of it almost sending her reeling backward. He looked forceful, commanding, a beast carved in shadows in the dim, flickering light.

A dark storm.

“You know what you have to do?”

Angelina nodded. “I think so.” She looked down at the recording device in her hand, then back up at Kieran. 

“ _Oui._ I’ll do this.”

Kieran sighed in relief, making for the door. Then, he turned, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you, _Mademoiselle_ Angelina. You have no idea what a favor you’re doing us here--but trust that we’re thankful.”

Then, he winked, a clandestine and secretive press of his lashes, all arrogance and suave assurance. 

“You’ll see the end of all of this, soon, Ms. Desmond. If all goes well. Trust me.”

Then, with a slight wave of his fingers, he darted out with alacrity, not sparing a glance back as he swung out of the kitchen door and made his way back beyond the thrush of rhododendrons.

A pity he did not, for if he had turned a second later he would have noted the way Angelina’s face turned in a force of suspicion as she stared at the neglected salmon pot, and then Kieran Sinclair-White’s back as his figure disappeared in a shower of flower petals.

He reentered the lobby through the main doors, only glancing at the hyacinth pot once as he hurried excitedly up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste, like he had a lifetime ago, for entirely different reasons. No, now instead of pure anxiety, there was a soft thrill in the way his legs bounded up the landing.

He raced down the hall, past the numerous hyacinth planters and the small squares of furniture and the lip of an upset rug, the stiff fabric curiously rumpled in stagnant waves.

A grin overtook his face as he fiddled with the room keys, the metal jangling in his fingers as he hurriedly inserted the key into the lock, throwing open the door in a fit of eager excitement.

What happens next is a thorough lesson in color theory.

He sees marigold light, soft yellow from the impending evening filtering onto the bed, the sheets, the unusual disorder in the room, and the woman in crimson and with straw-blonde hair sitting placidly on the desk chair as though it were hers, staring at him from under cruel lashes, a hyacinth caught in her fingers.

He sees burning red when he turns to see his wife, tied to a chair with milk white rope, bleeding from her lip and from her forehead, her beautiful form slumped and captivating eyes closed in delicious sleep.

And then, everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ok ok everyone settle down. 
> 
> \- Welcome to funky town! Please note that your wigs and kneecaps are not safe here, as this city is known for pickpockets. Always keep them close to you :)
> 
> \- VERY excited for the next few chapters. Maybe if I get too impatient I’ll have 15 up on Saturday/Sunday, but I also like the prospect of making y’all wait until next Thursday >:) depends on how nice I’ll be/my motivation ;v;
> 
> \- I love Angelina to death. You’ll see the breadth of my love for her later but this is an Angelina appreciation note. I’d been giving little hints throughout that she was very innately perceptive as well as emotionally intelligent (we get most of the character introductions through her eyes, she can tell when Kieran is tense looking at the flowers-that-shall-not-be-named, she memorizes his coffee order), and it all comes to a head here. Brb gonna go cry over her now she is baby :)
> 
> \- Goldenrod: encouragement. Valerian: readiness. 
> 
> All will be well. Trust in your Peachie, darling readers :)
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> -thumbipeach


	15. Soir et Jour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ll make it out alive.”
> 
> “We always do.”

_“Well, then.”_

_Sir Rhysmel gazed at them over the smooth leaflets he held in his fingers, his eyes belying nothing but unwavering solemnity. He crossed his legs, smoothing out his collar over the gold dotting his uniform, and cleared his throat in the dusty, stale air of his office, the only room in the castle that received the full brunt of the evening dusk._

_“The Chief of Police’s niece--” His eyes glazed briefly over Lauren before they landed on her partner--”and the Purple Hyacinth.”_

_He pronounced their titles with almost no fanfare, the words shot out into the waves and lodged like lead in their hearts, a sentencing like one in a courtroom._

_Lauren bit her lip, shifted in her seat, crossed her legs and fingered the hem of her green blouse nervously. Kieran didn’t say anything; his eyes were still endless blue depths settled squarely on an unknown spot ahead of him, unseeing._

_“An assassin and a police officer.”_

_Dakan sighed, setting down the case files he’d been perusing and sinking backwards in his chair, arms coming up to rest around the handles. He looked horribly tired, bags making violet divots underneath his eyes._

_"I must say, I wasn’t quite expecting this.”_

_Kieran looked up at that, the hint of a familiar, sardonic smile playing on his lips. “Excuse me, Sir--but what exactly were you thinking of, then?”_

_“Well--” he leveled his gaze with Kieran’s, some apprehension in his face--”something less divisive, I’d have thought._

_He looked at them both curiously, raising an eyebrow. “I’m surprised. I’d have thought you’d have been at each other’s throats.”_

_Lauren smiled, her eyes flickering downward briefly. “Well. We learned pretty quickly that we wouldn’t get much of anywhere like that.”_

_She glanced over at Kieran, who smiled fleetingly at her. “Me more so than you, darling.”_

_“Oh--sure.” She didn’t really have it in her to fight him, at the moment. And, she supposed--he was right._

_Sir Rhysmel smiled a little, an unnameable something dancing in his eyes. “Yes, I guess that’s so. Although--I wasn’t really talking about that.”_

_He looked pointedly down at where their legs lay in their chairs, angled towards each other. Their hands sat folded in their laps, and yet something in the way they were set must have given him pause. Lauren flushed._

_He cleared his throat, waving a hand and sending them all back to reality._

_“Anyhow--that’s the deal that’s been set. I trust you two understand the specifics--they were properly explained to you?”_

_Lauren’s face tightened, and she couldn’t help an involuntary glance over at her partner._

_Kieran leaned forward, elbows on his knees and face downcast. His hair was ruffled, messy around the nape of his neck where it settled into a low bun, and Lauren had the urge to swipe away the bangs from his face, to see his eyes better. She could never really know what he was thinking unless she studied his face, felt the pulse of his wrist and laid her palm on his broad chest to know how fast his heart beat._

_“Five years isn’t too long of a time.” Dakan looked at the both of them. “I’m sorry that that’s all we can give you. But considering--”_

_“It’s fine.” Kieran cut in, the emotion in his voice untraceable. “We’ve spoken it over.”_

_“We understand there’s to be complete silence, on our parts.” Lauren said, her face resolute, composed._

_Dakan nodded. “I can’t help the people that know, right now. But yes--what happens here remains in here. Hopefully forever.”_

_He paused, finger on a pen. His eyes were set in hard planes of age and a life weathered in the scrutiny of the public, and his hair showed definitive flecks of bleeding grey in the afternoon light, the shadows it cast dancing across his face and framing the papers scattered on the table._

_“--Lune will not be spoken of, after this. I hope you know that.” His face was severe._

_"The royals are willing to do this for you, for both our sakes. Please internalize the importance of this."_

_Lauren nodded. Kieran looked over at her, his eyes appealing. She then turned back to Sir Rhysmel._

_“We understand.”_

_He smiled, then, and it was a little soft, a little knowing. “You won’t get any fanfare, I’m afraid. No public lauding.”_

_And to Lauren’s surprise, Kieran was the one who answered, a rueful look on his face as he stole a glance over at his partner in crime._

_“We’re not exactly disposed to be heroes, Sir.”_

_Lauren smiled. "No. We aren't."_

_The papers are signed. Kieran’s handwriting is smooth, neat, flowing like a trail of water down the line that seals his fate. Lauren notes it dully, with a strange pride in her limbs._

_It’d make for a good teacher’s hand._

_Once it’s done, the room is silent. And yet somewhere, Lauren can hear the shatter of glass, a gnashing of teeth. A goodbye._

_“I want to say—” Dakan starts, then stops. Lauren is surprised to hear a hint of nervousness in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, then starts again._

_“--I hope you two will be alright.” He clears his throat, looks abashed._

_“With all due respect--I hope the both of you have no need to come into this office together again.”_

_Lauren regarded him for a few moments, then looked over at Kieran. She raises a brow when she sees the look in his eyes--sparks dance in them, and when he turns to look at her there is something there that quells the apprehension that had been building like a taut ball of yarn in her chest._

_It’s the familiar tang of fondness, the spark of the hunt, the thing that draws her to him and the thing that is most familiar. His lips curve, his eyes shine. He is who she knows him to be; the playful, knowing imp she fell for and allowed to fall at her feet as a made human._

_“Well--I don’t think you’ll have to worry.” Then, his face is hard again, and he looks forward at the man opposite, towards things he does not know, with stalwart acceptance._

_“You know who we are. We make it out of things alive.” He turns to her again, and she regards him for a few moments before matching him, looking back at Sir Rhysmel with a glint in her eye that she once would have been embarrassed to name._

_“We’ll make it out alive.”_

_“We always do.”_

———

Lauren jolts awake, an immediate lance of pain in her head making her lashes flutter and releasing a tattered groan from her lips. 

She’s in their room; it surprises her, the sudden familiarity. The window where she and her husband had made their deal on, jumped from. The bed they’d lain in. The closet door they’d schemed behind.

But there are differences now, too, as follows on the trails of intruders. For one, the once mild disorder of the room now looks as though a cyclone hit it. Their things are strewn about on the floor, in much the same way the Rethburn’s room had read; except Lauren could detect a kind of organized chaos to it, as though each insulting pile of her clothes and the matted spatters of files was an art piece carefully crafted in presses of mediums on the floor.

For the other, she finds she cannot move her hands from where they are tied to a chair in the center of the room. And when she twitches her fingers to try and wake her cramped nerves from a buzzing sleep, she finds them brushing over another set of them, ones she knows by the callouses on the pads.

She grits her teeth. 

_“Kieran.”_

It’s a low, hushed whisper, still affected by the haze of chloroform and the ragged nature of a drugged stupor. Her voice is harsh, grating, and she can feel the sandpaper grain in her throat as she twists her neck imperceptibly, trying to look behind her.

She can feel faint stirring, then a stifled groan as her partner rouses from his own unconsciousness. 

She leans her head back so that it rests on his shoulder, turns her nose to nestle in the crook of his neck that she can reach from where she is bound to his back. His black hair falls loose around his shoulders like a curtain, and it reminds her almost startlingly of the day he was released from prison; it had draped in the exact same way, smooth like waves of dark silk.

He grunts again, his head moving, the metallic clink of handcuffs sounding in the room, and when he mimics her previous movements with his own hands he comes to very much the same conclusion as her.

_“Lauren.”_

His own voice is filled with panic still, and it makes her heart ache.

_“I’m ok.”_

_“Are you sure--? Lauren--”_

“ _Really. Mon bonheur--don’t worry.”_ And she can’t help the smile that curves onto her face, the comfort that he is facing away from and yet he can hear like a siren’s call.

He lets loose a relieved breath, his own head falling backward. They can’t see each other’s eyes; but they are back to back, shoulder to shoulder and toes parallel, and it is a position familiar enough that they both know they don’t have to worry about a thing. 

His fingers clasp with hers as much as they can underneath their bindings, the handcuffs and the ivory rope, and she closes her eyes and allows his lithe digits to fit into hers like a lost puzzle piece, now found and home once again.

_They got out of things alive._

_“I_ hate _to interrupt.”_

The both of them turned harshly at the third voice in the room, and it was then that they fully took in their capteurs, registered that, truly, there was some danger to this scene in the play.

Mrs. Rethburn is still at the desk, the cherry red waves of her dress billowing about her ankles and stopping at her bare feet. Her face is still just as young, as pretty--but there lies a certain malevolence to that beauty, now, once where it was more like bleached poppies than scathing roses. 

"But I'm afraid I must get a word in."

They both regard their captor with a blank, calculating look. Lauren shakes her bangs from where they've fallen into her eyes, draws herself up in the chair, prepares herself for the onslaught that is to come.

"Then I suppose it's only fair, then,” she says.

And Tina smiles, like they are sharing another talk on the beach. She uncrosses her legs smoothly, rises gingerly and strides over to them, standing in between like a judgmental statuette, carved in milk white and scarlet marble.

"It's nice to talk to the both of you together again! I'm afraid I didn't have a chance to after that first day!" Her voice could almost be named warm, if not for the sudden glint in her cold, hawk-like eyes.

Kieran answers, this time. His voice is irritatingly sly, the tone from so long ago sliding back perfectly into his timbre, like coming home, like shedding a mask.

"I see! It's quite a pity it's not--" he looks at her pointedly--"in better circumstances."

Tina shakes her pretty head, the straw-thin stands of her hair swaying about her shoulders in drapes of cotton blossoms. She looks like a warring angel, cast in canary yellow prisms of light that stream through as the evening winds to a near close, a curtain call, the deceptive ruse of night.

Just then, they hear a rustling from the closet, and Patrick Rethburn emerges, a placid turn of his lips and their corkboard in his hands. 

He levies them with a harmonious chuckle, his face inviting; his broad hands are the only indication of his true nature; they are bulging with exertion, clenched in anger, hands that could have just as easily strangled Lauren than merely pressing cloth to her face.

“Look at this, _mon bien-aime.”_ He holds up the corkboard, red threads hanging from pins and photos falling from their places.

“Oh, well _that_ is quite rude.” Kieran huffs. “That took a long time to put together, you know.”

Lauren resists the urge to kick him, but then realizes that that is quite impossible. So she settles for a stifled hiss in retaliation. 

“Seems they’ve been playing at a bit of amateur detective work.” Tina smiles, looking over at them. “How sweet.”

But Patrick shakes his head. “No no--see, that’s the thing, Tina.”

And then, to the shock of none, his fingers finally cave, and the cork snaps with a resounding crack, splinters flying and the sound reverberating throughout the small room. Lauren winced, and Kieran scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Well now you’ve gone and done it--”

“Could you kindly be quiet?”

And suddenly, like a light switch flickering to on with a sharp pull, Patrick Rethburn is no more the docile puppy, the man with white teeth and a broad smile that crinkles his eyes like gentle rice paper. 

No; now he is who Lauren had always somehow suspected him to be; a cold, calculating killer, like so many others she has danced with in her life. His face is hard, his voice is steel, and his hands, his broad hands: they are unforgiving in the evening light, strangling and choking even the smallest of embers. 

“You see, you two--” and he prowls over to them, his lithe athlete’s figure obstructing the shadows and casting geometric planes of looming black--”I think you’ve done enough talking.”

“Indeed.” Tina pipes up from her position now seated on the bed, the white linens crinkling and the mattress dipping like a waterfall with her demure stature and her weight, crimson flowing over the sheets like blood on a dove’s feathers.

“You’ve been around the chateau, left and right--” she sneers. “Frankly, what that stupid woman said was right--I think you two _are_ fools--”

“Oh.” Patrick pauses, his lips pursed. Then, he looks at his wife in a mocking manner, his brows raised and face glowing with a triumph that makes Lauren want to smack the smirk off his face and bleed him dry.

But she waits. 

She waits, and her partner waits. They are good at that, after all; they have the patience enough for the right time to strike.

“No, that’s the thing--you see, I’ve come up with a bit of a theory.”

Tina, for once, looks a bit confused. She looks at her husband in relative contempt. “Pat, what--”

“Listen!” 

And then he turns to regard Kieran, all warmth gone once again. He is frost, winter, death, the intruder in their private space again.

“Your wife--” he says, speaking only to her husband--”moves with confident feet, I have noticed.”

He laughs, sharp like the point of a blade. “Her footsteps are exact and precise--never out of step. Except, of course--” and he leans in close, and she can feel Kieran stiffen.

“When I brought her here--oh, was she weak in _my_ arms.”

She can feel the repressed snarl that threatens to burst forth, from her but most of all Kieran, whose fingers were now pressing against hers in silent rage. She squeezes them, squeezes them and tries to calm the silent waves.

“That was expected, I’d supposed--she _is_ a police officer.” Finally he glances at her, and his gaze is not kind. It is not nice.

“But _you.”_

He places an arm on Kieran’s chair, and she can feel the way he rears his head back, sets his lips and faces the man head on.

“ _You,_ Mr. Sinclair-White--you were always a bit of an anomaly.”

Kieran smiles, and it is not soft--anything but, now, on the hardened killer’s lips, carved from granite and marble. “Is _that_ so?”

Patrick nods, sitting back on his heels and standing ramrod straight. He points a finger.

“ _Your_ footsteps are quiet. I think half the chateau can confirm that you’ve snuck up on them at some point this week. And I’ve seen it for myself--you move like a panther.”

Kieran’s chin tilts, and he does not give his capteur the upper hand. 

“Thank you, my good man! I’ll take that as a compliment and call you kind.” And the smirk is evident in his tone; she does not have to look.

Patrick doesn’t take to it, doesn’t nip at the bud he offers. He whirls on him, sets his shoulders and moves further into the wound that is starting to fester.

“No normal person walks this way--and I think it would have taken a lot of time to learn how to do so.” 

In an overly friendly manner, he pats Kieran on the shoulder, like a bosom companion who has shared a very important secret. He smiles keenly, and Lauren once again quells the growing anxiety in her veins, the tremble in her fingers.

“And thus, after much deliberation, I’ve come to somewhat of a conclusion.”

And he draws nearer, close enough to detect the rasp in his voice, the grain like harsh, wet stone scraping.

“You’re an _assassin.”_

Kieran looks at him for a moment, saying nothing. The silence is all they need as confirmation.

“Now, _then.”_ Patrick moves next to his wife, standing and looking down at her with a thoughtful look, a hand on his chin and stroking his clean-shaven face. 

“An assassin--” he turns to Lauren, finally, smirking delicately when he sees the blood trickle down her lip still. She smiles disarmingly. 

“--and a police officer.” Patrick frowned. “Now--what exactly could I make of _that?”_

Tina seems to turn over the information in her mind, the wheels churning and thoughts like water flowing. 

Then, she looks up, a curious spark in her eyes.

“An assassin and an officer--oh!”

And she smiles, drawing delicate fingertips underneath her chin so that the red varnish glints in the specks of sun, leans forward, her teeth bared, her mouth curving in a wicked grin.

_“I_ see _now.”_

And they look down the center, in between the divide where they are joined through rope, through the divide where they are parted by duty.

Tina snaps her fingers, lips curving.

_“Lune.”_

———

The declaration is met with pregnant silence.

Outside, somewhere, the world turns, wind blowing and the tide crashing down on rock. Outside, somewhere, nature moves without discrimination.

But it is a fact that night and day will always follow like clockwork, spinning like thin needles and arising when the time is just so.

It is Kieran that breaks the thin veneer of nothing, of the vacuous space of air where nobody speaks.

He laughs. He laughs and he laughs, and Lauren joins in too, after a bit. He throws his head back and jeers, like a triumphant lion at the kill, face coating in pearls of red and eyes no less than a thunderstorm. 

Lauren drops her head downward, trying to hide the amused giggles that befit a schoolgirl more than an illusive vigilante. The red bangs that have escaped her messy braid fall and frame her face like delicate red rivulets, and the freesia petals that were twined in fall like rain from the back of her neck.

“ _So.”_ Kieran’s laughter finally abates, and he leans his head back so they are touching, his fingers still loosely caught with hers.

“I suppose the jig is up, huh darling?” And his neck turns to look over at his wife, his face soft, regretful, and still sewn with some form of amusement.

Lauren nodded, looking back at the Rethburns in a mockery of pity. Somewhere, she can feel the almost mechanical pout of her lip, the way her eyes shine with a sharp glint. 

“I guess so, subordinate.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I’d anticipated it was bound to happen eventually.”

“Quite so.” Tina cocks her head, looking at Lauren with a kind of assessing glare. “I’m surprised--you’re not who I expected.”

Kieran snorted, groaning slightly as the handcuffs he’d been shoddily bound in scraped against his wrists and cut marks into them. “What exactly _were_ you envisioning?”

Patrick crossed his arms. “Well--you know, from where we’re from--you both are some sort of legend, really.” He frowned. “And yet meeting you--well.”

Lauren scoffed. “Dreadfully sorry that we don’t live up to the buildup, _Monsieur.”_ She glances backwards, laughing.

“Maybe we should try harder, dear.”

Kieran nodded, his eyes not leaving Tina’s face, who’d been staring at him for some time with an odd look on her face. The woman in question then tilts her head towards him in acknowledgement, and rises, moving to the desk and picking up the stem of the thing she’d been holding upon first glance. Striding, moving slowly, she waves the purple hyacinth in his face.

Lauren doesn’t need to turn to feel his flinch, knowing that his face is pale in the midst of lavender and the scent of the hyacinth blossoms, cloying and unfocused. She squeezes again, but his fingers are limp in her grasp, and that manages to scare her more than anything else.

“This seems to mean something to you, doesn’t it?” Tina asks him, searching. He says nothing. 

Patrick cocks his head, looking at his wife curiously, his gaze flicking back and forth between the purple flower and Kieran’s face. Then, he starts.

“You’re-- _oh,_ isn’t that just the icing on the cake!” And suddenly, almost startlingly, his eyes are that of a young boy, and his cheeks shine with excitement. He stops short in front of Kieran, bending down to lock his eager eyes with his blank ones.

“You know-- _Hyacinth.”_ He smiles, and what was once warm still somehow is, caught in a morbid imagining of a boyish wonderment, his eyebrows raised like a child who has just discovered a hidden sweet.

“It’s actually _such_ an honor to meet you!” He laughs. “I’ve been--hell, _fascinated_ with your work for a very long time.”

Kieran smiles through gritted teeth, and when he speaks his voice sounds as though it’s being stifled by cotton.

“I suppose you want me to feel flattered.”

“Oh, no need--” He walked backward, sitting back on his heels and regarding Kieran with decided blankness--”seeing as I’ve tied you and your wife up I would be wholly understanding if you weren’t all that inclined to be.”

And, rather in the fashion of the everyday man, he stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets, shifting back and forth and rocking like an excited child.

“But you must know that I consider you to be _very_ fascinating to study.” He smiles. “I mean--you were one of the deadliest criminals in central Ardhalis! And you got away with the _whole_ lot!”

He grins, dark even when bathed in milky pools of evening sundown. “Clearly, Mr. Sinclair-White--you are talented. Why--I should have known when I saw that planter in the lobby that day.”

“Was _that_ your reason for the hyacinth?” Lauren chimes in, her voice cutting through the tension like a warm knife to smoothest butter. To her surprise, it’s Tina’s voice that answers.

“Oh that _bloody_ thing--” and she whirls on Patrick, for all the world the exasperated wife--”that’s _his_ idea completely.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows, glaring at his wife. “I thought it was--”

“ _No,_ it was foolish,” she griped, striding over to him. 

“It was harmless--”

“You _think--_ but evidently not to _these_ two.” She gestured to the both of them with an angry wave of her hand.

“It would have been a lot easier if you hadn’t decided to be so _fucking_ dramatic!” 

“Tina! I was--”

“ _If I may butt in--”_ Kieran deadpanned, stopping the arguing couple in their tracks--”but you’re wasting our time, I fear. After all--”

And he gives them a callous grin, and Lauren rolls her eyes at the fun evident in his voice. He’s enjoying himself, however hurtful it may be to hear his old name on another’s lips.

“--we _are_ on vacation, aren’t we, darling?”

Lauren nodded, looking rather apologetic. “Quite, dear. We’re here to enjoy ourselves, and frankly--this is getting boring. _So--”_

And she turned, suddenly no more the silent woman, the mere wife of another player in the wide game. 

The freesia petals in her hair, the bruise on her forehead and the blood dripping from her lip, they do nothing to stifle the sharp, cold, _cutting_ set to her eyes, the curve of her rouged lips. Through it all, she can see Kieran look at her with unrestrained pride.

“--please, do us the ever-generous favor: _and get to the point.”_

The Rethburns are silent, for a moment. Then, Tina crosses her arms, takes up the attack and sets her feet in a perfect dancer’s poise.

“We want to know exactly what you know.” She smiles. “So we can decide what to do with you.”

“Oh?” And Lauren throws back her head, smiles wide, all teeth, and yet there is still some acknowledgement in it, begrudging respect. 

“So _you_ can decide what to do with us?” She reiterates, her voice incredulous.

Tina nodded. Then, walking over to the desk once again, she picked up a small basket. Lauren recognized it as the one she’d seen her leaving with just hours earlier. She pursed her lips as the box was opened, and suddenly a gun was in her hands with the safety flickering in Mrs. Rethburn’s fingers.

“I’m afraid if you don’t cooperate, we’re going to have to use this.” She sighed, and it almost read as regretful. “But rest assured we wouldn’t like to.”

“No, certainly.” Kieran mumbled, with a raised eyebrow.

Lauren nodded slightly, leaning back once more, her head falling to rest on her husband’s shoulder, his hair tickling the nape of her neck where they were joined. He turned to look at her, and their eyes met, blue and gold, waves of the ocean and molten metal sparks. They nodded, made their agreements in their subtle glances and clandestine trust. 

They knew. They were hunters, and understood the moment to string the bow taut had not come yet.

No harm done, then, in giving the condemned their last meal.

“So, _mon amour?_.” And he looked askance, to hide the generous curve of his lips.

“What _do_ we know?”

“Well.” Lauren looked up, seeming to consider. Then, she looked at Tina and Patrick, her gaze the great equalizer in the way it roved over them, searching, a bird of prey stripping the mice of their skin. 

But she kept it quiet, kept them thinking that they were the hawks in the nest, here.

“We know that you two are a couple—your names are real enough,—who makes their living out of extorting and then disposing of targets—particularly nobility,” she begins.

Kieran nods, then takes up the handle. “We know that you two have been doing the expressed for Aria Challenger for months before your journey here, and that your sole reason for coming to _Des Angoisses_ on her heels was to collect the last of what she had to offer you—“

“And--” Lauren turned to them in contempt, brows narrowed. “We suppose that’s exactly what you did.”

Tina hummed, turning to Patrick. “Not bad.”

“How did you manage to figure it out?”

“Oh-- _that_ was simple.” Kieran shrugged. “A thing of mere investigation, really.”

“But--the one thing we were held up on was _why_ and _how_ you did it.” Lauren turned to them. “It was easy to come to the conclusion--and we needed proof.”

Kieran leant forward, as much as he could in his position, and smiled. “We knew you were lying to us when you said Aria was being blackmailed. Or at least--we knew that _you_ didn’t see it.”

Lauren nodded. “It was clear that _you--”_ and here she tilts her head at Tina--”were covering up for someone, and it was particularly obvious to know _who_ you were covering for.”

She looked down at where her legs lay on the chair, laughed rather sadly. “You remember that day when I told you that relationships were built on trust?”

Tina smiled, tilting the gun slightly as if to inspect her hold on it. “Of _course,_ Mrs. Sinclair-White. It was very nice of you to tell me that--”

Lauren shrugged. “It’s no trouble at all,” she said, her lips curving in a curious grin. “But _that_ conversation had me thinking, anyhow--” 

“Oh?”

“You _lied_ to me that night.” She turned, a spark in her gaze and betraying nothing. “You lied about your husband being in your room that day. And I didn’t think much of it because _I_ thought I knew exactly where he was.” 

Kieran nodded. “We never really considered that if you _were_ meeting Aria--then _you_ would have been the last person to see her alive.” He smirked knowingly, relishing in the way Patrick’s lips turned in a sneer. “Not me, like you were so fixed on, _Monsieur.”_

Patrick laughed harshly. “Good! Good. But you still can’t prove a damn thing--”

“Oh _can_ we?” Lauren turned to them, her brows raised in genuine curiosity. 

Kieran chuckled. “We have the ledger Aria took from her husband--it has exact figures and dates, and I’m sure if we check it will correspond to dates _you--”_ he points a finger--”were visiting the second precinct for the past few months.”

“That necklace you bought her probably has a receipt still.” Lauren smiled. “And I’m quite sure that if we ask about in Greenwich, we’d find the _exact_ shop that supplies the bullets for that gun you’d used.” 

Kieran shook his head. “It’s really not that hard--everyone leaves a trail, eventually.”

Tina scoffed. “All of that is circumstantial--what on earth do you two _have_ that could possibly implicate anything?”

“Well--” Lauren drew the syllable out, looking out the window for a moment and squinting as the sun descended further on the horizon, casting rays of blinding light into the room and highlighting the soft colors in the walls and the heightening the warmth of where she sat.

“--we were hoping you could tell us.”

“Oh--” Patrick laughed, settling down on the bed next to his wife, crossing his legs. “You want to try and get things out of _us?”_

“You could _try,_ I suppose.” Tina smiles. “But you must know, we’ve been through a lot of interviews before.” She shook her head. “We’ve been in this game for a while.”

She opened her eyes, and they were the cold, calm, deceptive brown of the first days she’d been named a tentative friend, a washed out woman to pity.

“I don’t think you could, really.”

And at this, Lauren laughed, and Kieran joined her. They looked at each other, then back at their opposers, faced them together, back to back and toe to toe and hand in hand.

“Well--I’m sure that’s true.” Kieran shrugged, conceding. Then, he turned, gracing them with a sharp smirk, a quirk of his bows and a grateful lilt of his shoulders, his bangs creating a curtain around his handsome, devilish face. 

“Although--”

“I’m sure that no matter how many interviews you’ve had to sit through--including one with _me--”_ Lauren smiled, leaning forward--

“You’ve never had the fortune of an interview with _us.”_

_“So--”_ Kieran quirked an eyebrow at his wife, assessing, and as he did so he crossed his legs in a lithe movement, bringing his heel decisively down onto the floor, startling the pair sitting across from them and masking the surreptitious click of a record player. 

He leaned forward as well, his shoulders aligning with Lauren’s, and then they were the two hunters again, together immortalized in the stars of night.

“Shall we begin?”

———

“We’d hoped to have the upper hand, when we did this--” Kieran laments, his eyes closed in regret--”but I suppose that you’ve--”

And he grins lecherously--”got our hands tied?”

Silence. Lauren rolls her eyes.

“Dearest husband?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Kindly shut up.”

“Oh _come_ on, that was _good_ \--”

“If _this_ is the interrogation, I’m wholly thrilled for the rest, I think.” Tina bats her lashes, looks askance. Lauren shakes her head in exasperation, leaning forward once more.

“We know you’d been embezzling _Madame_ Challenger for months--” Lauren turned to Patrick--”by pretending to be her lover.”

“ _Really--”_ she cooed--”I find it was a fine job, you two pulled off.”

Patrick shrugged. “I suppose. It was safer that way--and goodness knows she liked the attention.” He laughed bitterly. “Fool of a woman.”

“Did you pick her because she was that sort?” Kieran asked.

Tina shrugged. “Most of our targets were easy like that.”

“And who handled the money?”

“Usually me.” Tina shot a glance over at her husband. “As I’m the only competent one here.”

“Hey! That’s--”

“You were the one who insisted on coming here and forcing _her_ to come here and making a _big_ show of it all--”

“You were the one who asked her down here?” Kieran frowned.

Tina turned to him, her face drawing tight. Suddenly, her appearance made her look old, far older than she really was. 

“ **No. She was the one who--”**

“I wouldn’t advise you to try and lie to us, _Madame.”_ Lauren said tersely. “Like we said--the longer we sit here, the more time we waste.”

Tina grit her teeth. “Fine, then. We’ll give it to you--you’re going to die anyways. You know too much.”

“Oh?” Kieran frowned. “Who said anything about dying--?”

“Never mind your threats, _Madame.”_ Lauren shook her head. “We just need to know who orchestrated the whole ordeal.”

It was Patrick who spoke next, and the thrill in his voice confirmed what Lauren and Kieran had been suspecting, banking on as they rode through the passageways that would lead to the end:

Patrick Rethburn was the type of man to revel in his own achievements.

“That little--she took the bait alright.” He waved a hand. “Was perfectly content to hang off my every word and treat me like ditchwater. And the whole time--” he smiled. 

“We asked her for more, and more.” Tina continued. “Patrick would woo her, and I would collect the money.”

“And you’ve been doing this for some time, I can conclude.”

Tina looks at her curiously. “How _did--”_

“Mrs. Rethburn--” and Lauren levels her with a searching, keen glare--”do you remember the name _Allory?”_

It is a testament, then, to Lune’s efforts, that the couple once perfectly smug and poised was now thoroughly taken aback. 

“Ah--see?” Kieran smiled. “Not so high and mighty now, are we?”

“You--”

“You seem to forget, the both of you, exactly _who_ I am.” Lauren smirked, tilting her chin in defiance.

“I was the one who closed that case--and though I didn’t have the--should I call it a _pleasure?--_ to interview the maid who gave the initial testimony--”

She leaned forward, a hard, sly glint in her eye, and Tina Rethburn’s face turned a milky white.

“--but I’m sure that if I _had,_ then I would have welcomed _you_ as I would have known you when I first met you that morning.”

Tina regards her in silence for a few moments, then lets loose a peal of laughter. “Good!” she looks to the both of them. 

“I apologize for before--you live up to the expectations.”

Lauren shrugs. “All in the wrists, _Madame.”_ Then, she turns back to them.

“Your game--that’s what it is. You work together in your crimes.”

Patrick smiles, and in an odd show of true affection, he lays a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“That’s true, isn't it, _mon bien-aime?”_ He looks down lovingly at her, and Kieran near laughs at the irony of it all.

_So he really does love her._

_Then there is_ some _similarity, then._

“Would you mind telling us exactly how you do it? I’m curious.” Kieran starts, crossing his legs and leaning back languidly.

**“I’m afraid I’m still a bit confused as to how it’s done.”**

Tina looks at him consideringly, then waves her hand.

“It’s quite simple, really--”

And she smiles, not nice, not nice, nothing real in it.

“One of us--” she gestures with a varnished nail--”takes on the role--the acting.”

Lauren smiles. “I’d thought so--”

Then, she turns to Kieran slightly, her voice demure and placid.

“Do you remember, dear--when you said that Mrs. Fairson was the _perfect_ witness for the crime?”

Kieran seems to think, tilting his head back. Then, he smiles.

“I think _so--_ I do remember that.”

“Well--remind me to thank you _properly_ for that statement.” She laughs. “It was really illuminating.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well--” and she looks askance, straightening her chin with a deft flick.

“Because--” and she laughs--”rather like the wine--once you tell someone that something is how it is, they start to believe it implicitly.”

She turns to Patrick, and his face runs stone cold at the sharp gleam in Lauren Sinclair-White’s eyes. 

“You were the one to call out, I believe, your so-called lover’s name, when you saw her lying there. But--” And she leaned forward, her heels shifting--”I’m willing to bet that it _wasn’t_ the deceased lying there at all.”

“In fact--” Kieran turned to Tina. 

“It was _you.”_

Silence. Tina scoffs, her lips twisting uncomfortably.

“Now you’re being stupid--there’s--”

“Oh?” Lauren cocked her head. “I believe I’ve got sufficient enough evidence for it.”

She indicates towards Tina. “Come here and look in my dress pocket.”

Tina scoffs, hesitating, and Lauren laughs at the apprehension in her face. “Go _on!”_

She tilts her head, her hair falling over her face, her eyes shining like she’s imparting a secret. “I don’t bite, young thing.”

When Tina does as she’s asked, she pulls out the scarlet wig in fingers that Lauren can’t help but notice the tremor in. She grins wickedly, and it’s not a nice grin, either.

_No, perhaps she cannot say that she is a good cop at all._

“So--” Kieran starts, chuckling, a breath huffing out of his lips. “--when your husband and Mrs. Fairson came upon the body--it was really you, substituting for her.” 

Patrick nods, smiling a little. “One woman, really, looks so much like another.”

“ ** _Quite.”_ **Kieran smiles thinly. “That’s the ruse you two put up--”

“--in order to indicate a time of death that is inaccurate.” Lauren finishes, looking up at the couple. 

“The both of you are strong athletes--I think that worked in your favor.” Kieran tilted his chin.

“You told us you were a strong swimmer--that’s what you did, then. Once Mrs. Fairson went running back--and taking her time, under all that tulle--you leapt into action.”

Lauren smiled. “You got up--discarded your disguise, and swam the length back to the chateau--that was how your clothes were soaked, and you were able to give your alibi to Mrs. Briarton.”

“ _Then--_ and this is the part I am still a little caught up on--Patrick ran back to the cave.” Lauren looked at him. “Where Aria was still alive, waiting for you patiently.”

Patrick grinned. “ _Yes.”_

“And you killed her. You’d told her to meet there the night before.”

He nodded, teeth all canine and dripping. “ _That too, I’m afraid.”_

“And then carried her body--she’s light, I’m sure it wasn’t too hard--”

“Only _too_ easy! Really--” he turns to her, pointing a finger--”rather like you. _Pliant.”_

Kieran struggled against his cuffs at this, but Lauren shot him a look, and he quelled his rising anger, choosing instead to bite his tongue, his jaw visibly clenched in blind anger.

“And shot her.” Lauren nodded. “Using that gun--and the kerchief to muffle the noise.”

Patrick smiled. “Spot on, Chief Sinclair!” He grinned lecherously.

“Yes-- _yes,_ I killed her.” He wrung his hands, and all of sudden his gestures read desperately, like a starving man dying for a morsel of attention. 

“I killed her--I shot her dead, strangled her with my bare hands, felt her blood--and what would you know!” 

He threw his head back, laughed like a devil. “It was almost _fun!”_

Kieran bit his lip, cocked his head. “But _why?”_

Patrick stopped, looking down curiously. 

“All for money? For--”

“Oh--well, really, aren’t we doing everyone a favor, now?” Tina cut in, waving a hand. 

“I mean--you saw how that woman was. Really-wouldn’t it be nicer to have people like her gone from this world? It was the same with Mr. Allory--” she spit out his name like a curse, dropping her heels to the floor silently. 

“--all rich, pompous asses who think they can move people with their coin and guiles. Don’t you think we’re doing people a turn of favor?” Tina cocked her head. “Ridding evil from the world?”

Kieran laughed harshly. “Is _that_ what you think? Really?” He looked back at Lauren, who shook her head incredulously.

“They’re not lying--I can say that.” She looked regretfully at the opposite couple. “Is that really how you go about it?”

Patrick shrugged. “Money is tight, where we’re from. And--isn’t that sentiment a bit hypocritical, coming from you two?”

That stops them in their tracks. They look silently up at Patrick, and he grins.

“I mean--that’s exactly what you two did all those years ago, no?”

_“No.”_

Lauren grits her teeth, and slams her heel on the ground. The force of her ejaculation only heightens the tense, dangerous air in the room, stopping all and leaving them to breathlessly take in the woman now incensed.

“You two, I’m afraid, don’t know _half_ of what we’ve done.” She snarls. “You can’t judge it for yourselves at _all._ We didn’t do it out of some twisted form of _justice._ ” She grit her teeth.

”We’re not _heroes.”_

Kieran nods. “You both need to understand--” he sighs. “It’s not that easy. It _wasn’t_ that easy.”

Silence. True silence, really; nobody notes the absence of the hum of scratching background noise that was once present in the room.

Patrick laughed, suddenly. It was a harsh bark, rather like a hyena upon a carcass rather than a man, a human being. Lauren grit her teeth at the sound, the tone piercing through her ears and leaving them ringing.

“You _know--”_ He stopped. “You’re wrong, Mr. Sinclair-White. It was _horribly_ easy!”

The declaration rang out through the room, like a bell tolled, a chime brought down upon metal and sparking stone. Kieran’s lips tightened as the man continued, words flowing like a bottle uncorked. 

“Doing it--snapping her neck!” He laughed, harsh from the back of his throat. “It was _easy!”_

He turned to Kieran. “You, of course, must know what I’m talking about, sir! After all…”

He trailed off, and his question was met with silence. Lauren could feel her husband shift behind her, his back drawing upwards until he was sitting ramrod straight, his eyes fixed ahead of him. She could make out not a gleam of ruthless capability, but rather pensive thoughtfulness, of true consideration. 

Then:

“I suppose that’s true, then.” he turned to Patrick, his voice alarmingly calm. “Murder _is_ easy.”

His statement shocked Lauren, and she nearly whirled to look at him in indignance. But he merely shook his head at her, stealing a glance at her and smiling sadly.

“But what _isn’t_ easy--is the _aftermath.”_

He looks up at the two murderers, and there Lauren can see the true dichotomy between them. That for all their kinship in the taking of lives, there is still a riverbed of difference between them, the ruthless and the reckless, the bold and the cowardly.

“You see--it’s afterwards when it _really_ starts to hurt.” He chuckled without mirth. 

“The pain of having snuffed out a life--that won’t _ever_ leave, and _that’s_ why the majority of people don’t choose that path.” 

Patrick scoffs, and Kieran takes that up as his cue. He continues, his eyes charting a storm and his teeth bared like a triumphant lion.

“So, _Monsieur._ From a killer to a killer--” he stops, looks back at his wife, and Lauren cocks her head, smiles a little.

“In the end, murder isn’t _as_ easy as one might think.” 

And Lauren can’t help the small smile that graces her face.

Tina laughs, rising and striding over to Kieran, leaning down and looking him square in the eye.

“I don’t think you can really tell us that, _Hyacinth.”_

He sneers, rising to meet her devilish countenance, a sinner for a sinner to make a whole.

“What exactly is your plan, then?” Kieran shrugs. “You’ve found us out--and we’ve got _you.”_

“ _Well--”_ she turns to her husband, hands on her hips. “That’s the thing.”

Patrick smiles. “You _don’t_ have a _thing_ in regards to us.” 

And he draws nearer, until he’s in front of Lauren, looming over her like a statue. It reminds her clearly of the marble carvings in front of the royal palace; cold, formed distinctly and yet without any passion, any clarity or warmth, only broad and imposing as you step on the lain cobble and peer up at the wide spires.

“All you have, at best, is circumstantial evidence that the police won’t bother with.” He smiles. “You seem to think you have the upper hand because you know the story--but who is going to believe you then?”

Lauren sighed. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Then you’ll let us go? Just like that?” Kieran asked.

“Ah--” Tina tuts. “No--not exactly, Pat?”

Mr. Rethburn laughs, looking down at Lauren with a curious eye. “You see--we can’t exactly have you two implicating anything, now.”

“Then what exactly do you propose?”

Tina smiles, leaning down to look Kieran in the eye. Something in her gaze must give him pause, and he grits his teeth.

Then, she holds up two hyacinths. Kieran pales.

“Picture this, Mr. Sinclair-White--” she smirks.

“The fearsome Purple Hyacinth--well, he’s had enough of ten years of silence.” And she trails her fingers down the armrest, tapping against the wood.

“He is found killed, along with his wife, in their room, by themselves, hyacinths at their feet, as befits him.” She grins, and Patrick takes up the mantle.

“It wouldn’t exactly be a stretch to say you’d gone mad--killed your wife and then yourself. After all--”

And he takes Lauren’s chin in his fingers, tilting her chin up none-too-gently, sneering as she twists in his grip.

“Who’s to say a killer such as yourself even really cares, even can _love_? Once a killer, always a killer.”

Kieran is silent for a few moments, not even a breath in the air to break the deafening silence in the room. When he speaks again, something has changed. There is a significant charge in the air, and it feels oppressive, horrid, cloying and acrid like blood.

“ _Monsieur--”_ he does not turn to speak to him directly--”you are aware that I am an assassin, correct?”

Patrick frowns. “Yes—?”

“And you are aware that I was, at one time, one of the best?”

Tina scoffs. “We—“

“ _Then--”_ and finally he turns to look over his shoulder. His voice is cold, chilling, enough to frost over, and his eyes are that of a sunken predator. He is scary, he is a devil lurking in the night, and the deep, scratching rasp of his voice sends shivers up Lauren’s spine.

“--you should know that if you even _dare_ lay a finger on my wife--” he snarls, barks with rage and a silent, murderous promise—

”I’ll have absolutely _no_ qualms about killing the both of you?”

It’s not a lie, not a lie, and Lauren shakes her head with the force of the truth in his words. Even the Rethburns must feel it, his conviction, for their smiles are uneasy, now.

“Oh, we anticipate your anger. But--” and Patrick strikes, taking Lauren’s chin in his hands and twisting it harshly, until a cry bursts forth from her lips, unbidden.

“ _Laur--!”_

But before his panicked ejaculation of her name has left his lips she has already reacted, catching in the back of her throat and spitting in Patrick’s face, scoffing in momentary, childish victory as he reels backward, wiping his face and eyes.

“You--” and he steps forward, reaching out a hand to grasp her neck—

But she is quick, a viper, a lepress. She kicks her foot, striking him in the stomach and sending him stumbling backwards. When he rises again, he is composed no more.

His face is red with blinding rage, and now Lauren sees his true nature. For all the jovial puppy, Patrick Rethburn is, underneath, a snarling beast. 

One could say—but she won’t, wouldn’t dare—that he was a monster.

“You _bitch.”_ He snarls, pointing a finger in her face, spittle flying from his tongue.

“You’ve been running about, left and right with that _monster_ of a husband of yours, getting under my nerves and attempting to sweep the rug underneath us with your-- _theatrics.”_

_“Try and kill me, then.”_ Lauren challenges.

“Lauren! Really—!”

“I’ll be _fine,_ subordinate, truly.” She smiles back at him. “You’re here, after all.”

He stops, then chuckles, glancing back at not only her, but Patrick as well. 

“That’s true--” and he smiles, and for the first time that evening it is real, warm, the one she knows and loves, the curve of his lips that she couldn’t help but worship, not when he looks so much at peace.

“--we get out of things alive, right?” And he grins, all teeth and secrets.

She matches him, as she always will.

“We get out of things alive.” She affirms.

Then, he turns to Patrick. “I believe you underestimate the both of us, _Monsieur et Madame.”_

“Oh?” Patrick rolls his eyes, clenches his fists. “ _Really?_ You have the bravery to say that when you’re tied up here?”

Kieran shrugs, then grins wide. “You know--it’s funny.” He tilts his head. “You’ve both gone and made the same mistake the officer here made when she first met me.”

Patrick’s face, for one, registers genuine confusion. “What--?”

But before he’s even gotten a chance to answer, Kieran is in front of him, one cuff dangling from his wrist, a looming pather. He barely has time to yell before his body is prone on the floor, head bleeding with the force of the punch Kieran levied at his head, rendered unconscious. 

He stares down at him, a predator grasping at victory. He rubs his wrists where the restraints have carved red marks, like war paint, like blood.

”Assuming that I can’t get out of handcuffs.”

Lauren lets out a strangled yell, furiously picking at her bindings with the small paring knife she’d had hidden under her gloves. Once she’s free, and riding on pure adrenaline from being knocked out and tied up for so long, she turns to a trembling Tina, her gun useless in her fingers, and with a swift roundhouse kick to the head, she, too, goes down in a flurry of crimson.

Lauren looks down at her, satisfied. 

She huffs indignantly, kicking her again for good measure.  
  


“And _that’s_ for making me feel sorry for you!”

For a few moments, the two people left in the room do not speak. They breathe heavily, the thrill and adrenaline draining from their bodies. Lauren reaches down frantically for the little black box strapped to her upper thigh under her sky blue skirts, feeling it over and smiling in relief when she feels the tape rolled up, a finished recording.

Then, the fight goes out of Lauren’s limbs, weak from chloroform and exhaustion, and she cries out as her legs give, her arm shooting out in instinct to clutch at the dresser beside her in support.

Her husband turns to her at this from where he’s been standing over Patrick’s body, and then they are staring at each other in something akin to disbelief, their eyes meeting in a thousand other lifetimes, blue and gold and fire and air. They pant with exertion, their bodies still, stolen in time.

Then, his eyes dart down to her lips, to the blood and the slight tremble, and that breaks the wall between them. 

With a muffled exclamation he strides forward to meet her, the force of his movements dizzying as he takes her in his arms desperately, kissing her with a fervor that leaves her knees weak for an entirely different reason.

She pants with fleeting disappointment as he pulls back, her hands clutching at his biceps as she leans into him for support, and his eyes rove over her face, panic in them and a fire that makes her want to weep.

And then he is pulling her back in, searing, his fingers mapping commanding trails down her waist, taking hold of her hips and pulling her to him further, further, until they are held so tightly together that they cannot tell where one begins and the other ends, a single entity bathed in sunlight; in moonlight. 

She muffles a gasp against his lips, fingers drawing higher to card into his loose hair, and she delights in the slight groan he emits when she scrapes her nails lightly against his scalp, soothing and breaking all at once.

They break apart panting, breathless, and their hands do not leave each other, like they are afraid to let go for fear that they will be torn apart again.

Kieran swallows, looks down at his wife, his fingers worrying divots into her hip bones. “You’re alright?”

“ _Yes--”_ she breathes, her eyes darting down to glance at his lips. He reaches a hand up to tilt her chin, and it is a stark contrast to the way Mr. Rethburn had held it moments before; it is gentle, soft, reverent.

He runs a thumb lightly over the clotted blood on her lip, the murderous fury in his eyes once again. She grasps his wrist and leans into his touch, fingers pressing where she can feel his pulse.

“I got it when he knocked me out--there’s no need to worry.”

Kieran clicks his jaw, turns around from their embrace to give a scathing look to the unconscious man now lying in defeat on the floor. “I’ll--”

_“Don’t,”_ she insists, hard. She brings a palm up to his cheek, turning his head back to her so she can level her gaze with his. He stares at her, tense, and then lets it go inside, sighing and leaning into her touch the way she did with him.

“It’s not worth our time. They’re going to be skinned alive anyhow--”

“The tape--”

“All good, subordinate.” She smiles. “Angelina did her job.”

Kieran matches her. “That she did.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, still caught in their embrace. Then, Kieran sighs, his hair falling forward until his nose tickles the grooves of her neck. Lauren laughs, her fingers threading through black strands and gently patting his head rather like a small puppy.

“We’ve done it, subordinate--it worked out.”

“Yes, _yes,_ I know.” He sighs, and his breath ghosts over her skin, causing her to shudder. She can feel him smile into her neck before straightening, a hand snaking around her waist as he looks down at her gently.

“I _told_ you it was a shoddy plan--”

“Oh _please.”_ She waved a hand. “They were only too willing to tell us, you saw!”

He laughs, throwing his head back. “Yes, I suppose! How did you know?”

“Well--” she looked at Tina Rethburn, at the drape of crimson silk and the pearls falling from her hair.

“--I’d assessed that they were narcissists.” She hummed, waving a hand. “All too eager to brag.”

He nods. “Well done, Chief.”

She places a chaste kiss on his lips before drawing back, and he raises a brow at the newly challenging look in her face.

”He—what he said—he called you a—“

”I _know, mon cœur.”_ Kieran smiled sadly.   
  
  


She frowned, bringing her lips to his sternum and gifting another kiss there, soft and feather-light. “Are you alright—?”

” _Yes,”_ he laughs. “I’m alright. It’s not his opinion of me that matters.”

And he cups her face in his hands, tracing the curve of her full lips before gracing them with his own, imparting his secrets with the intimate press of them, and she takes it willingly, all he has to give and more.

They pull back. Smile.

Night and day, dark and light. Lune once more.

Her lips take on a sultry curve, and Kirean can’t help it; he leans in like a moth to its flame, falling into the fire that rages, the soft scent of honey and flowers, the caress of freesia down and no less sweet. He only dully notes, in the contented haze, the feeling of her fingers gently trailing up his abdomen, teasing gently as she smiles languidly at him, her lips parting to speak.

“ _So,_ subordinate--” her palms blaze trails on his skin under his shirt, bunching up the fabric and leaving him wanting, his mind reeling under her touch.

Her face brightens, and he can’t help, again, the grin that overtakes his when she taps the black record tape against his shoulder, playful and impish.

“--ready to tip off the police?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Here’s the chapter early, as promised. Feed, my lovely, darling readers :)
> 
> \- I hope this manages to appropriately explain all. Now that you know the ins and outs, I hope going back through will give you some of the clues I’ve dropped throughout the fic ;) Have fun!
> 
> \- The plan is for chapter 16 to come out on Thursday, 17 on Saturday, thus concluding AAoCaA. I’m very excited but also very sad to see this fic that I’ve treasured working on come to an end. BUT! I do have more things planned for you all--some of which are...let’s just say not in the AAoCaA vein ;)
> 
> \- With that being said, TLoF will run 20 chapters now, because I have too many ideas and am too attached to married Lauki ;-; help
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the peak of highkey power couple! Lune was fun to write :D Now, I am going to sit back and prepare for s2 episode tomorrow so that I can be brain dead for three more days :’) see ya! 
> 
> Comments/kudos are freesias (there’s no food in this chapter sorry lol) <3
> 
> Insta: @artsofisha  
> Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com
> 
> -thumbipeach


	16. Erosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Revenge can be a very powerful thing, you know.”

_“I killed her--I shot her dead, strangled her with my bare hands, felt her blood--and what would you know!”_

_“It was almost f--”_

Kenneth clicked the record to a stop, cutting off the drawl of Patrick Rethburn’s ferocious outburst, and sat back in the settee, letting out a long, pained sigh as he did so. Kieran watched in waning sympathy as he rubbed his temples roughly, his tight expression hidden under waves of sandy brown hair.

“Well—I suppose that settles it, then,” he said, and the resignation in his voice was odd--something too accepting, too normal for Kieran’s expectations. 

“A full confession.” Mr. Desmond said it almost mechanically, his eyes still trained on the little black recording device as though it had personally offended him in some way.

Kieran nodded solemnly. “The police combed it over. They’re with them right now, I think--there’s nothing much that can be done to backtrack on their statements.”

Kenneth looked up from his position buried behind his fingers. Raising an eyebrow, he cocked his head and flicked his gaze between the recording device and the man standing placidly in front of him, hands folded in a neat bow and spine straight, the removed factor to the equation, for all the world a mere passerby.

“Smart of the both of you to do this.”

Kieran smiled and shook his head. “Please. I only got Ms. Desmond to assist us. The credit will have to go to my wife.”

Mr. Desmond looked askance. “My daughter…”

“ _Was a great help._ ” Kieran turned to him appealingly. “Really--you should be proud. She’s proactive--more so than you’d expect.”

Mr. Desmond seemed to consider him for a moment, then sighed, running searching fingers through hair that was noticeably lighter than he probably would have liked it to be. 

Kieran, for the first time, noted how similar he and his daughter looked; they had the same set to their brows, their mouths curved in exactly the same crinkle of the corners. It was odd, that similarity, for all physicality couldn’t negate the dichotomy of their dispositions. 

“I suppose I haven’t given her much in the way of credit, then.” 

And he smiles sadly, the edges of his eyes turned down in regret. Kieran realized that he knew that look too well; a man reflecting on all the things that could have been.

“Well.” He clapped suddenly, rising from his seat with startling force. “I thank you both for your help in this matter.”

He looked gratefully at Kieran. “It’s fortunate that you both were here for this, _Monsieur_ Sinclair-White. But I am _so_ sorry that--”

But Kieran only held up a placating hand, hiding the soft smile curving over his lips.

“Think nothing of it.”

Kenneth turned to him curiously. “Why did your wife ask you to help?”

“Oh.” Kieran rubbed the back of his neck. “Well. She knew she could rely on me, I would hope.”

“No--I’m not disputing that, surely. Just seems a bit odd--could have asked the police--”

Kieran shook his head. “You do realize that she would have never been able to get their guard down otherwise?”

“I suppose so.”

“Besides--” Kieran paused, his eyes flickering momentarily to the open window, down at the embankment and towards the horizon beyond.

“--it’s not as though I’m an amateur, exactly.”

Kenneth’s brows rose. He steepled his fingers on his knees, nodding slightly. “I remember Rosa telling me that you used to be in the same line of work as your wife.”

Kieran nodded. “ **Yes.** ** _I mean--it was simple archival work, nothing of importance._** But--”

He smiled ruefully. “I suppose in some way it was refreshing for the both of us. Reminded us of when we used to work together.”

Mr. Desmond nodded abstractedly. “Very sweet. Excuse me--but--”

And he walked to the door, placed a hand on the knob. Then, turning, he bowed to the both of them apologetically.

“I have to go make sure things are in order. And--” his eyes looked distracted--”find my daughter.”

As he breezed out of the room, the fresh scent of fabric cleaner and thyme following him, Kieran smiled a little, thinking happily to himself that Angelina Desmond might have one little thing more to be happy about.

He was about to turn and take his own leave, but when he glanced back at the other occupant in the room to bid him a hasty farewell, he found the man in question sitting artfully in the cream colored settee, hands on his knees and still eyeing him critically. 

Kieran raised an eyebrow, and coupled with the quizzical look in his face, that broke the tense silence in the room. 

“I suppose I should be the one thanking you more.” Kenneth sighed, blinking once before turning his gaze to meet the other’s solidly again. 

Kieran was about to wave a hand and repeat his previous grievances, but to his surprise the Admiral was the one who stopped him.

“No--you and your wife helped catch _my_ wife’s murderer. I suppose in some way--” he paused, his eyes trained thoughtfully ahead of him, at the planter of yellow and purple hyacinths lain by the open balcony window. 

“--I owe the both of you.”

Kieran laughed harshly. “ _Really!_ It’s not a matter of--”

“Allow me to extend a hand, please.” Kenneth crossed his arms, his voice that of stern command. “It’s my nature--I pay back my debts, if they ever arise.”

Kieran laughed, pausing for a moment to inspect the other man’s imploring look, the blank expression that gave away nothing, like a mask, a shield. Then, he nodded in begrudging acquiescence. 

“I don’t find that particularly immoral of a code. Not at all.”

“Oh? You know something of moral codes, then.”

“Well, yes. Men do, tend to have them,” Kieran says, through curiously clenched teeth.

The two men looked at each other for a time. There was something unnameable in the air; some sort of tension that could have been cut through easily with a sharp turn of the heel, a shake of dismissal. But something--something held the both of them back from that, and that something was making Kieran decidedly uneasy. 

Then, he took the leap, raising a hand in an attempt of a goodbye and pivoting to exit the Challengers’--now solely the Admiral’s--hotel room.

“Thank you for your generosity and cooperation--I’ll--”

“ _Something has been bothering me.”_

Kieran turned back to see Kenneth’s searching eyes roving over him, rather like a scientist inspecting a bug underneath a microscope, a monarch butterfly with wings of gossamer being picked apart by its tiger-striped threads. His face, which had been a practice of neutrality, was now marred with apprehension.

“--about you.”

Kieran stood straight. “And what would that be, _Monsieur?_ Nothing alarming, I hope.”

“Hm--depends on what you call alarming.” And he leaned forward, hands on his knees and a curious look in his sharp, emerald eyes.

Kieran was struck with the acute realization that he and Kenneth Challenger were largely closer in age than he had previously thought. His face, wrinkled as it was, was not permanently set in age, not harried with time and instead sunken with emotion, depth and depressions worried into his eyes and cheeks by no doubt years of sacrifice, sacrifice of his own well being, his own youth imparted to others who did nothing but perform demolitions upon it.

“You know that I am a military man, correct?”

That was a surprise. Kieran looked rather taken aback, and when he turned to face the other man on in full he instinctively crossed his arms around himself, his fingers clutching the fabric of his blazer imperceptibly to calm the slight tremor of them. He leaned back against the door, a picture of suave nonchalance.

“I was aware--I’m sure the title of Admiral isn’t awarded for a stuffy office job.”

Kenneth cracked a smile. “Quite.”

He paused, looking unsure. Then, he continued. 

“I’d trained since I was eighteen. I rose steadily--probably due to my impassive and impartial demeanor--but I’d like to think it was my strength--so that is what I exposit to others.”

Kieran raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Okay…?”

Kenneth’s eyes scanned his form, the way he was standing and critically over the way his legs were poised like a frightened hare, ready to spring at any slight drop of dew, any new frigid movement that he found threatening.

“I saw a lot of men in my position through the same maneuvers. And during that time I got to analyze exactly how they moved, and what they were doing wrong.”

Kieran tilted his head. “And where exactly is this going, _Monsieur?”_

Kenneth looked at him dispassionately. Then, he pointed to his shoes with a curious tilt to his head. 

“It takes a very, very long time to be able to move that silently.”

The room, once bathed in the warmth of the impending sunset, now felt horribly, terribly cold.

“And you know what I think--?” Kenneth leaned forward, his fingers clasped in a gesture of helpless audacity.

“--I think, _Monsieur,_ that you weren’t _exactly_ what most people would call a police officer.”

Silence. 

The two men looked at each other for an innumerable amount of time, the seconds on the clock ticking, ticking, ticking like a gavel bang each time in Kieran’s mind. He stood, assessing, calculating, and he had a feeling that the man opposite was doing much the same thing.

Then, Kenneth sighed, crossing his arms and falling onto the backrest. Fishing around in his pocket, he brought out his little rose-gold cigarette case, flicking it open with a deft and practiced finger.

“I suppose, _Monsieur_ Sinclair-White, that if you are so hesitant to take me up on the favor I’ve offered you and your wife, I can always cash it in _for_ you.” 

He leant forward, and Kieran understood _why_ the army was so fond of him, then--his eyes were cold, unfeeling, right when he needed them to be.

“My silence will suffice, no?”

Kieran sneered, uncrossing his arms and flexing his fists in irritation. Then, he sighed, huffing out something akin to a helpless laugh, a mere breath stolen by shock and fear from his throat.

“I rather think, _Admiral--”_ he ran a hand through his bangs, leveled the other man with a glare that was deceptively neutral--

“--that I don’t like you very much.”

Kenneth seemed to consider him at this, his eyes faintly amused. Then, he nodded slightly, acquiescing. 

“I think that’s fair.”

Kieran tilted his head.

“I can live with a mutual dislike.”

He didn’t say anything in return. 

Kieran turned to go once again, hoping that this was the final callback, but alas, his fate was further flawed.

“I assume Rosa told everyone at length about my first marriage.”

Kieran turned back to him once again, hiding the mild irritation he felt. “I don’t believe I had the pleasure of hearing about it in full.”

Kenneth cocked his head. Then, his eyes flickered to the pot of hyacinths by the windows, his eyes catching on the purple hue of one now drooping, petals scattering and laying themselves in a mosaic on the floor. 

His eyes widened. He looked back at his companion, at the way Kieran himself was now looking at the flowers, head on and blazing, like an animal facing its worst enemy.

“I see.” Kenneth sighed. Then, he looked down at his hands, his palms open, as if he’d expected to find something of substance in them.

“My wife was a Scythe member.”

_That_ drains all burgeoning irritation and annoyance out of Kieran’s limbs. 

His brows raise in astonishment, and he swivels backward to look at the Admiral. He was surprised to find that there was a rueful smile on the other’s face.

“She--”

“I don’t know how long she was there for; but when we were married I knew of it.” He looked up. 

Kieran frowned. “Do you make it a habit to marry people who…” he trailed off in embarrassment, waving a searching hand, and to his surprise, Kenneth laughed a little.

“I suppose I do. I--” he grits his teeth--”I guess I get it into my head that they are redeemable in some way.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Maybe I just have too much faith in humanity, even despite everything I’ve been through.” 

He looked up. “Does that make me a fool?”

Kieran paused, his lips pursed slightly.

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you, I’m sorry. But--if you would call _me_ a fool for having a similar thought--”

Kenneth smiled. “No, certainly.”

Kieran felt uncomfortable. “She died--”

“After the 17th, if that’s what you’re going to ask.” He looked away. “I wasn’t with her.”

He grimaced. “I don’t mean--”

“Quite alright.” Kenneth waved a hand. “It took a while. But--I’ve made my peace.”

Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Have you?”

The other man looked at him sharply, and Kieran moved on.

“I--” he looked down at his feet, keeping his eyes trained on the fractals of dust floating over his shoes, the specks of light dancing behind his eyelids.

“Perhaps I knew her. If you’d give me her name I could--tell you about her. If--”

But he only shook his head. 

“No, thank you. I don’t want to know if you knew her--I don’t want the answer to that question.”

He sighed. “I’m telling you this because--”

He looked up.

“I’m not holding anything against you.”

Kieran’s eyes widened. He looked back at the other man curiously, and it was Kenneth’s turn to balk a little at the scrutiny, at the other’s assessment.

Then, he sighed. “I would have argued that you _were_ holding something against me, before.”

Kenneth made to speak, but Kieran held up a hand. 

Then, he smiled. And for the first time--it was something akin to genuine.

“But we’re even now, I suppose.”

Kenneth nodded. Then, he waved a hand. 

“Go. I can see you want to.”

Kieran sighed. “Thank you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I think I should be saying that to _you.”_

Kieran tossed a look over his shoulder as he exited, finally, leaving the man alone in his room filled with now only things of his choosing.

“Think nothing of it.”

Then, considering, he turns back again, one final time.

“With all due respect--I don’t hope to see you again, _Monsieur_ Admiral.”

And the aforementioned man smiles, a thin, wan smile, like one who has accepted a fate handed to him with gloved fingers not stained and not his own.

“Likewise, _Monsieur_ Sinclair-White.”

And with that Kieran is gone, like he was never there to begin with.

Beginning to make the trek down to the bar, aching for a cup of chamomile to soothe his still throbbing nerves, he passes down the lobby and past the little closet, which the police had made into a makeshift interrogation room.

And then stops when he hears loud, pitched voices from within.

“ _Why_ won’t you believe me? They’re _Lune,_ is what I’m saying, that--”

“ _Quite_ frankly, _Monsieur--”_ the stern voice of Captain Andres cuts through Patrick Rethburn’s frantic pleas.

”--I don’t give a damn if they’re the queen’s godforsaken bastards! You and your wife are being charged with first degree murder, I would hope that would mean something more to you--”

“Oh _bloody--”_

But Patrick stops the stream of curses when his eyes flick to the open door. Nobody else but him notices the silent creature, the figure cast in night’s shadows, the arbiter waiting as the clock chimes its deadly hour, lingering by the frame and peering in with imposing azure.

He halts. They look at each other through the crack in the door.

Then, Kieran smiles. It’s disarming, it’s warm. It’s everything he gave and more. The corners of his eyes crinkle in seeming mirth, like they are sharing a joke. Patrick makes to speak, his lips parting to show his row of blinding white teeth--

Then, Kieran lifts a single finger, and taps the pulsepoint on his own neck. 

The flame red in Patrick Rethburn’s face drains, and only pale, solid ivory remains, and a tinge of green, too. The artist in Kieran wishes to grab his canvas and paint the motley mix of blue, white, pale verdant splotches on the frightened man’s face and running down to his collar.

“You were saying, _Monsieur_ Rethburn?”

He turns back to the Constable, looks down at the table. When he glances back again, the second piece in the game of chess is gone, having made his move towards the end.

“ _Nothing._ I--I yield my time.”

———

Lauren walks down the embankment in silence.

She’d wanted some fresh air after the whole ordeal, after seeing the chateau uproot itself and turn tumultuously by its ankles, the whole building feeling like a ticking clock waiting to sound. So she’d turned to Kieran, ventured a quick kiss on his lips with a reassurance that she’d be back, and donned her shawl, sweeping it around her shoulders and brushing a hand self-consciously against her split lip.

Her steps follow a mechanical rhythm, two by two and four by four and innumerable many that she stops counting after a while, but it doesn’t matter when the track in her mind is all static and fuzz.

It reminds her of the night she’d broken her sleep to trek down to the seashore to meet her husband, seeking comfort from the dangerous storm in her thoughts left alone, the way the sand had scuffed the hem of her skirts and the way the breeze had blown breathlessly through her bones, leaving her feeling rather hollow.

There are notable exceptions, though, to this night. For one, she does not feel that way, not tonight. For while her mind still churns like the wheels of a raging timetable, she feels an odd peace, as she watches the moon take its place amongst the constellations and the fractured bits of starlight. 

It’s all over, it’s all over.

They won again.

The second thing comes as rather a shock. For instead of Tina Rethburn meeting her as an obstacle in her path towards solace, she happens upon a different woman on this night.

She finds Angelina Desmond curled up on a rock, her knees drawn to her chest and a little pout on her full lips, staring out towards the crashing waves of the ocean, never ceasing or dying, always always moving, the stars bleeding into the water like a photograph soaked to damp. 

The girl is unaware of her presence, the sand beneath her feet muffling her already quiet steps. But something in the wind must shift, her skirts billowing out like a pale blue ghost, for she starts, turns her pretty head to meet Lauren’s calm and kind gaze.

“ _Madame,”_ she breathes, a hand coming up to tuck her waves of hair behind an ear self-consciously.

“Ms. Desmond.” Lauren smiles warmly, taking pity on the little creature with her feet pointed and body curving like a statuette, ensconced on a rock and looking rather like her namesake, her dress a stark white against burnished orange and umber.

“I’m sorry to intrude--”

“ _Non. non.”_ She frantically waves a hand. “You’re not intruding on anything, I assure you--” 

She bites her lip, looks back out to the raging waves beyond. Lauren mimics her, then turns back, a question on her lips.

“Are you alright--?”

Angelina considered the question, then nodded. Lauren took a liking to that; most people would have answered quicker, not actually noting what was asked. 

“I am, I think.” A small smile graced her young face. “I--”

“Happy that it’s all done with?” Lauren said, drawing her shawl tighter around her as a gust of wind lifted the chill to her shoulder. Angelina drew her knees tighter against her chest, nodded.

“Yes. _God,_ am I.”

Lauren laughed. “Understandable. I am too.”

Angelina glanced at her curiously, something strange in the way she regarded her, then looked downwards at her feet, seeming to war with something in her mind. Then, suddenly, she blurted it out.

“I’m--going to the capitol in a couple of weeks. For school.”

Lauren gasped in delight. “ _Oh! Mademoiselle--_ that’s--”

Angelina shook her head slightly. “Call me Angelina, _Madame. S'il vous plait.”_

Lauren laughed a little, still filled with an acute happiness. “Alright, Angelina. I’m _very_ happy to hear--”

“ _My father--”_ Angelina cut in, her voice curiously blank--”he talked to me. It was funny--he hadn't talked to me like that for some years now.”

Lauren listened as Angelina continued, her fingers gesturing in delicate motions as she extolled her worries.

“He told me--” she stopped--”Well--”

She shook her head. “I guess he’d finally realized I’m not a child anymore. That--” she grimaced.

“--that he can’t exactly keep me any safer by keeping me here.”

Lauren nodded sadly. “Are you happy, Angelina?”

She considered. “I think I am. I mean--I’ve wanted to go for _so_ long--it’s jarring to actually be able to touch that dream.”

Lauren nodded. “That’s how dreams usually work, once you reach them.”

She smiled in acknowledgement. “I’ll wait until the season is over--a couple of weeks from now. But--I’ll be leaving before the month is new.”

Lauren smiled. “I do hope you’ll enjoy it.”

Then, she stopped. Her face turned grave.

“May I give you a bit of advice, Angelina?”

Angelina stared, her eyes wide with wonderment. “Of course--anything.”

Lauren looked out to sea, then back at her companion. “Be careful. In the capital.”

She turned her eyes downward, clutched her shawl in aching fingers, noting the way the crimson thread bunched and wrinkled in her palms.

“It’s like any city, Angelina. It has its ups and downs.” She looked up. “You have wit--use that when you’re out there.”

Angelina opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She seemed to consider her words, letting them sink in before making the next move.

Then:

“Can I ask you something, _Madame?”_

Lauren paused, surprised. “Sure--anything.”

Angelina looked back at her, her lips twisting in indecision. Then, she leaned forward, her eyes very wide.

“It’s--about your husband.”

Lauren felt taken aback. “Oh?”

Angelina bit her lip, looked down. 

“I--when he came and asked me for help, I was surprised.”

Lauren nodded. “I understand--” she said hurriedly--”he used to do police work with me; it may seem strange for him to be so involved. But--”

But Angelina was shaking her head. “Not that…”

She threw a glance over her shoulder, back towards the chateau main and the faint light emitting from the bar door.

“You told me, back when you first came here, that _Monsieur--_ he had a sensitive nose.”

She shook her head, looking at Lauren curiously. “But--I was cooking something when he came in--and it smelled dreadfully, even for me-- he didn’t seem to be affected by it.”

Lauren said nothing.

“So--I’d begun to think why--” she stopped, biting her lip unsurely. “What reason he’d have for wanting those hyacinths out of his room.”

She turned her face upwards to meet Lauren’s, and the two women merely stared at each other, two people caught in the wind and in the moments resurfaced from the past, like the tides churning out saltwater and shards of shells and muck from the depths within.

Angelina shrunk back a little, then whispered.

“I was--I don’t think I’d need to tell you what conclusion I came to--but--”

She looked back at Lauren. “I was wondering--of course, you don’t actually have to say anything--but--”

She trailed off, then blurted it out.

“Would you two happen to be--that... _Lune?_ Everyone talks about? You and your husband.”

Lauren still says nothing. She can only manage to tilt her head, twisting it to look out at the vast sea beyond, the moon hung in the sky like a priceless painting, one with no value and yet nothing holding a candle its splendor.

She lets her silence speak for her. 

And does it ever speak. Cheers with raucous pity, hollers with the deafening quality of a lie not told, a truth not vocalized.

Angelina drops her head. “I’m _so_ sorry, _Madame,_ I didn’t mean--”

_“It’s fine.”_ Lauren’s voice finally breaks, cutting through the tension like warm butter, spilling just as so into the cold, dimly painted night. She looks back at the young girl before her, shakes her head, purses her lips to hide the slight shiver.

“I’d expected it to happen, at some point.”

Angelina looked down. “I’m sorry--I don’t know what I can…”

To her evident surprise, Lauren smiled. She gestured to the spot beside Angelina on the rock.

“May I?”

“Oh!” Angelina looked startled. “Of course--of course--”

She shifted on the rock creating space for the new occupant, and Lauren leapt onto it with almost alarming grace and dexterity, settling down beside the girl, shifting her knees up to her chest to mimic her position. 

She stares out at the sea with her, following her gaze and watching the steady rhythm it chimes on the sandy embankment, her eyes trained on the stars and the way they disappear beyond the looming horizon.

“I don’t--”

She turns to Angelina to find her with her palms pressed up against the rock, looking wholly abashed. 

“I don't...know what to say to you.”

Lauren smiles. “You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to.”

“It’s just--” she looks up at the moon, its bleeding blue and clear, static shine.

“--everyone from the capital knows of you. They talk a lot--but never did I think--”

“And now that you’re meeting us, what exactly do you make of us--?”

Angelina looks at her, studies her face. She supposes that on this night, clad in the moon and the impending spark of dusk, to the study of a young thing like her, she must look horribly old. 

All her life lived displayed on her face, and yet she deluded herself into thinking she was still the young woman of twenty-two who did nothing but wallow in grief and self-pity and anger, fear--selfish thoughts collecting in her mind.

“Well--” she paused. “I don’t--I don’t know.”

She looked at her, face unreadable. “You don’t seem--like--”

“Like ‘vigilantes?’” Lauren laughed, her lips curving in amusement. Angelina’s cheeks flushed.

“No--I--I don’t know exactly, I’m sorry.” She looked down, her fingers moving in a nervous dance in her lap. 

“It’s just--I’d chalked it up to people more…” She paused.

“Showy?”

She looked back. “But you both are horribly understated--if it weren’t for seeing how you two work together I wouldn't have expected it.”

Lauren smiled. “I suppose there’s some truth to that.”

“I mean--you both--people laud you as _heroes--”_

_“Oh.”_ Lauren laughed harshly, and it sounded like a harsh scrape into the night. “Doesn’t that amuse me.”

“Well--”

“I’ll be the first to tell you that it’s the furthest thing from the truth, Angelina.” Lauren admitted, shaking her hand and looking down at her hands.

“Then--what--?”

“No--I don’t think i can try and sell you the idea that it was done out of a sense of justice.”

Angelina cocked an eyebrow. 

“Quite the opposite.” Lauren shook her head.

“Revenge can be a very powerful thing, you know.” She bit her lip.

“Kieran and I--we weren’t all that much older than you. And we were foolish--blinded by our goals and our rage towards our situations.” 

She tilted her head to look at the other woman, and her eyes caught the moonlight, blue and yellow swirling on her face and behind her eyelids.

“We made a change through foolish bravery, I suppose.”

Angelina stared, then laughed slightly, shaking her head. “I don’t know how much of a bad thing that is, _Madame.”_

“Well, I’m afraid you don’t really know me, then.”

She turned to her, a fierce feeling of protectiveness surging somewhere within. She took the young girl by the shoulder, looked into her eyes and sighed.

“What I tried to tell you earlier--it still holds,” she said. 

“The capital used to be a place that fed off of insecurity and fear.” She sighed. “The past ten years have been kind to it, certainly--but it is like any city is.”

Angelina nodded. “I understand.”

“Just--be careful.”

Rising, then, brushing her skirts of brown soot and sand, she smiled warmly. She saw herself reflected in the other’s wide eyes; a mirror of the visage of a woman ten years older, but no less assured, composed. She was made new, a bird born by the fire of moonlight again.

She smiled.

“I’ll extend a hand to you, for your help.” She bowed slightly, her fingers brushing the other’s arm.

“Feel free to look me or my husband up when you get to the capital.” She gave a little wink, a flutter of her lashes that had Angelina imparting a tentative smile to her.

“We’ll be happy to assist you. Our doors are always open.”

Angelina nodded, bowing a little in thanks.

“ _Thank_ you, _Madame_ Sinclair-White.”

And as Lauren turned on her heel to make the trek back, to her room, her comfort--her husband, she looked back with a soft, fond smile.

“Think nothing of it, Angelina. I wish you all the success in the world.”

Then, with a wave of her hand, she is gone in the lingering scent of honey and a raging forest fire.

———

When Rosa finds Ken, he is standing in the middle of his room, his fingers fluttering over an array of shirts and a cigarette in his hands, puffing small wisps of smoke thoughtfully.

She makes herself known through the things familiar to the both of them, the soft wave of her footsteps and the brush of her elaborate skirts, the soft scent of her perfume, like calla lilies and vanilla, not cloying or oppressive, but gentle, poised.

He turns to her, and though he does not smile, his emerald eyes shine like they always have when he sees her, and she smiles with the familiarity of it.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting,” she says blithely, breezing into the room with no lack of restraint, and with all lack of consideration, hesitance. He laughs, his hands buried in his trouser pockets and white shirt unbuttoned slightly around his neck in his state of pointed and artful mess.

“Never, Ro.” He looks up, the cigarette caught in two lithe digits and tapping ash onto the floor. 

“How are you faring, old thing?” She inquires, genuine concern in her voice. He looks back at her consideringly for a moment, then sighs.

“I’m alright, I think.” He glances outside the window, at the pot of hyacinths, then towards her, noting the traveling coat she had slung over her shoulder, a thing of vermillion that went with her white dress beautifully.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Rosa sighs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear self-consciously. 

“Yes. I don’t think I can stand it to stay here--not after everything.” She looked away, her hands toying with the silver buckle at the coat’s ties, her eyes downcast.

“I took more than two weeks off--but I suppose if I get back earlier it’d be less work for me to do to catch up” She smiled up at Ken. 

“Bully for me, no?”

He cocked his head, acknowledging her stance with closed eyes, a soft hum.

Then, she frowned. “You’re not--?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t--”

He turned until he was fully facing the window, eyeing the line where the dawn was threatening to break, cold blues and purples slowly shifting to light lavender, to yellow and orange.

“I don’t think I should leave. I know it may seem odd but--” He looked down.

“I just don’t think I’ve been able to live in this room as myself, really.” He leveled his gaze with hers, and there was a softness in it that had her reeling slightly, startled and yet brimming with fondness.

“I’m staying, for a bit. To see what it’s like.”

Rosa nodded. “I would guess that’s fair. As long as you’re alright--”

Kenneth nodded. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Silence for a few moments. Both did not speak. 

The only sound was the ruffling of the sheer white curtain, the sound of Ken’s breaths as he inhaled more delicious, delirious smoke. Then, he stopped, looked down and then up at her again, an ever-constant record of uncertainty.

“Would you find it particularly offensive, Ro, if I asked you an impertinent question?”

He throws her words back at her with no amusement, with no mockery. No, he has never mocked her; he has always managed to meet her head on, two people in the fighting game, and never once has she felt she is lesser. She likes that; even when their hands were leagues apart in size and experience she was always on equal footing.

She smiles, laughs, even. “Really, Ken. I would have thought you’d have known.”

At his quizzical look, she walks up to him, nudges his shoulder with her elbow and looks askance in mild amusement. 

“I’m sure there’s no question that could be impertinent enough, Ken. Coming from you.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

She nodded, frowning a little now. “Yes…?”

“Then--” He turned to her, looking her in the eye, and those gemstones, they sparkled like leaves and flowers, verdant green and strangely drawing, captivating, imposing--

_“Would you want to marry me?”_

Silence.

Rosa looked at him incredulously, her voice broken in her throat. 

“ _What--?”_

“I’m--” he looked away. “I’m not good with these things, _Ro._ You know that--but I have to say it--have to ask.”

He looked down at her, his face irritatingly calm, impassive. Except--except beneath, like only Rosa knew, something was there, something only she could discern. 

“Would you like that?”

Rosa stands, belligerent, silent, her face betraying nothing. Then:

“You great _lump.”_

The force and venom in her voice manages to wrangle some stark emotion out of him--hurt--and when he steps backward she leaps forward, a hand held up against them, between them, a temporary and thin divide.

“Do you even think before you speak? Why on _earth--immediately after--_ Oh, _Ken, you fool! Why--”_

_“Ro--”_

_“No.”_ She holds up a threatening finger. “You listen to me for once, hm? None of your little excuses.”

She crosses her arms, huffs, and suddenly she is the efficient businesswoman, the cutthroat who worked her way to success with all intention of staying there, ruthless like a viper, a hawk, a thing to undoubtedly lose to if trifled with.

“What on earth makes you think that you can get away with the sheer _audacity--_ do you understand exactly what you’re doing?”

Ken raised his hands. “Rosa--I--”

“You _what?”_

“I--” he stopped--”I haven’t been the most tactful man, before.”

“Oh--” she laughed--”is _that_ an understatement--”

“But I--” he rubbed the back of his neck, all sheepish and abashed. “I have a lot of respect for you. I know you--deserve better.”

“And then?”

She looks at him, and he responds with dignity.

“I am a selfish man, I think.”

She laughs at him. “Yes. I think you are.”

He sighs. “It’s quite alright if you--just--”

“What makes you think I’m refusing?”

He looks taken aback. “You--”

“When did I say anything to the negative?”

And she smiles, brilliant, blinding. He knows; she is happy, a happiness she has not felt since the day they parted.

“All I’m doing is making it very clear that I am not happy with your terms-- _or pointed lack thereof.”_

Ken smiled. “Then what do you suggest to me, Ms. Darnley?”

Rosa considered him.

“You know that I have a career.”

“I do know that. I am proud of you for it.”

“You know that you are just off the heels of a rather disastrous marriage which came to a head in a gruesome murder?”

He flinches, slightly, and she softens infinitesimally.

“I _am_ aware, I think.”

“You know that you have absolutely no hope of keeping up with me, Challenger?”

He stops at this, considers her playful expression, the way her head tilts almost in a mockery of deference. He bows himself, laughing jovially, his expression open and warm.

“I never expected anything less. You were always leagues ahead of me in every way, Rosa.”

She nods, then.

“Not now. I’m going to have to say no.”

He looks up. She turns away, walks towards the door, and he resigns himself to be left wanting in the scent of calla lilies that he wishes he could know better, know like he used to so long ago.

“But someday…” 

His head snaps up to find her looking back at him from under her long lashes, from behind a curtain of strawberry blonde so potent it rivals the sun, as does the smile she throws at him.

“I’ll find you.” She turns fully.

“I’ll find you in the capital. And then you’ll know.”

Ken smiles.

“I have no doubt in you, my old rose.”

Rosa, pitched with the greatest happiness she’d felt in her life, second only to the remembrance of squash and pumpkin blossoms and her mother’s waning garden, breezes out the door with the full knowledge that what she was leaving behind was not, in fact, fully lost.

———

She meets with him again, as she always, always will, although this time, contrary to the others, it is in broad daylight.

She unlocks the door to their room when sunlight begins to bleed in through the open window, and she stares at the picturesque scene before her.

The room is still in disarray; but the corkboard has been neatly cleaned, the photographs stacked and the yarn twisted into a neat ball and placed on the floor where it used to lay smashed to bits. The chair still lies there, as does the rope and the handcuffs, and it trails on the floor, leads out to the open balcony door, and to Kieran’s figure hunched over the balcony rail.

Wordlessly she slips off her sand-ridden shoes, treading lightly as she tosses her shawl onto the bed and joins him on the balcony, brushing his shoulder lightly with her own as she mimics his position next to him.

He smiles thinly, but otherwise they say nothing to each other. They don’t need to; they merely look out to sea together, smell the lingering scent of peonies in the planter and watch the sun as it rises above the waves.

She breaks the silence first, stepping over the glass tentatively like one afraid to desecrate the quiet solace.

“Angelina knows. About us.”

He sighs. “I’d figured.”

He turns to her slightly, his bangs blowing backwards in the wind. He’s tied it up in his braid now, and she moves to him, her fingers toying lightly with the strands that have escaped from the ribbon on his forehead.

“She’s smart--I knew that when I approached her.”

Lauren nods. “I don’t think it’s too detrimental that she knows.”

Kieran sighs. Then:

“Kenneth knows about me.”

That stops her. She stares.

“He knows--”

“Yes. He promised to stay silent, but--” he sighs, taking her hand in his and looking back towards the sea.

“--just something I have to keep in mind.”

She grimaces. “If—”

“Hey.” he turns to her, a soft look in his eyes.

“We’ll handle it,” he says earnestly, and she believes him, she believes him wholly.

“We get out of things alive.”

She smiles. “Alright, subordinate.”

He loops an arm around her shoulders, and they stand together as the dawn breaks, wind whipping their hair and keeping them rooted within each other.

“So--” she turns from her position in his arms to look up at him, and when he looks down at her curiously she begins again.

“--what do you want to do?”

He sighs. “Well. I took leave for two weeks. Same as you.”

She smiles. “We have about a week left to kill.”

“A lot of people are leaving,” he says, frowning. “I don’t blame them--I don’t think anyone really wants to stay after everything.”

Lauren nods. “I know.”

Then, she looks up. “We could leave? If you’d like. I’d understand completely--”

He smiles thankfully, his hand sliding down to her waist as he presses his nose to her hair, closing his eyes in thought.

“I was thinking...and--”

He straightened. “I don’t think I want to, necessarily.”

Lauren looks surprised. “Oh?”

“I mean--” he paused--”ultimately--it’s not so affecting.”

He smiles down at her. “Because--I had some fun. With you. And I suppose that even after everything--that is what I take hold of.”

She smiles, matching him. “I did too, _mon bonheur._ I’m glad of that. _”_

“So--” he proclaims, his smile very wide—

“What do _you_ want to do, _mon coeur?”_

He waves a hand. “You’re calling the shots, here, Chief.”

She turns back to the horizon, a finger on her lip, considering.

Then, she smiles, turns to her husband.

“You know--we don’t have to just stay _here_ the whole time, now.”

Kieran raises a playful brow. “Oh?”

“Well yes--I mean.” She turns to him, taking his biceps in her arms and leaning back to study his face, to level him with a playful smirk.

“We aren’t confined to the hotel, anymore. We could go into town--”

“--got plans to sit in a cafe with me, officer?”

She laughs. “Yes! And stroll arm in arm down the streets lining the shops, just like any other couple--there are some strawberry fields to the north, as well, we could--”

“ _That_ sounds positively swell, darling.” He smiles, his hands thumbing her chin lightly. She hums contentedly.

Then:

“You know--” she purrs, her hands trailing lightly over his skin to draw to his shoulders, the divots at the crook of his neck. 

He leans in as her voice drops, like they are two beings partaking in the game of secrets again.

“I overheard Captain Andrés complaining to the Constable about a restaurant in the north of the town--”

“Oh?”

“Yes--” she smiled, her hands ghosting over his collar and curving around a tie at his sternum.

“--he said she had the worst blackberry tart he’d ever tasted.”

“Hm?” Kieran hums, his own hands resting lightly over her wrists, his head dipping to pay homage to where her neck curves, pressing his lips lightly on the sky blue fabric of her dress.

“Now--I’m not too sure about the veracity of that statement--but I would have to call him upon his bias--”

She draws back, steepling her fingers and cocking her hip playfully.

“I do happen to know that he likes scallops.”

Kieran stares, then throws his head back, laughs, his laughter booming from his chest and settling a warmth in Lauren’s bones that leaves her breathless. He takes her waist in his hands abruptly, and she lets out a delighted yell as he spins her quickly, setting her down facing the bleeding sun to the east, taking her face in his hands and kissing her softly, reverently, like she is all he has to his name to love.

“That sounds like a fine adventure, _mon amour,”_ he pants against her lips, his smile blinding. She laughs with him, all bells and chimes and soft petals in the wind, and he is intoxicated with the way her cheeks and eyes shine with mirth, only for the joy he gives her.

“So--do we have a deal, subordinate?”

When he sweeps her hair back from her face, kisses her eyelids and the tip of her nose, his back against the balcony rail, she knows the answer, the only answer he will ever give her to that question, the affirmation of all that they are.

“Sounds like a deal, officer,” he says, his hands clasped in hers, fingers laced and palms sewn in the tightest of bonds they could ever make.

And the sun dawns on another day, the moon falling back behind the roving expanse of the tides, out of sight but _never_ out of mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next notes are going to be long with my thanks, so I’ll take the time here to wrap some things up:
> 
> \- Des Angoisses—Anguishes/Agonies. See what I did there?
> 
> \- La Belle Chose—The Beautiful Thing. This is why several characters, namely Lauki and Angelina, repeat the phrase “all beautiful things” throughout the fic.
> 
> \- Mon cœur/mon bonheur— Lauren refers to Kieran as “my happiness,” or, for an even looser translation, “my good fortune.” Kieran saved Lauren, essentially, from herself, and she feels he is her fortune, her eternal happiness :>
> 
> \- Kieran refers to Lauren as “my heart,” because she is exactly that. He’d be nothing without her and he knows this. So essentially, for no other express reason other than the fact that he is a massive simp
> 
> \- I mentioned the varying degrees of affectionate nicknames before, but here is the official tier. Does anyone care, no, but oh well:  
> Lauren: subordinate < dearest < dear < mon bonheur  
> Kieran: officer < darling < mon amour < mon cœur < Lauren :’) he calls her “Chief” or “detective” when he’s proud of her. Same with Lauren (Professeur, although you don’t see it much here).
> 
> \- As you all probably can tell already, the events in this fic/ it’s characters are based off of/heavily referenced from the book “Evil Under the Sun” by Agatha Christie. Names of the characters have been altered, and events have been tweaked slightly/removed entirely, but most of it follows the original storyline, with a few notable exceptions that reference other Christie novels:
> 
> \- Kenneth Challenger’s name in the original book is Kenneth Marshall, and he's actually just a Captain, there. I changed this due to the confusion of Captain Andrés/Captain Hermann. The “Challenger” name is actually taken from another Christie book titled “Peril at End House,” in which there is a character named “Commander Challenger.” That’s about it in terms of parallels; Kenneth’s character follows the original pretty much to a T
> 
> \- The Lauki dynamic/ investigation is heavily inspired by Agatha Christie’s “Tommy and Tuppence” series, in which two childhood friends-turned-eventual-lovers team up to solve crimes/unmask spies. They are the OG highkey power couple, and even have a short story collection titled “Partners in Crime,” where they run a detective agency together. While I chose to stay away from directly paralleling these books (as their dynamic mirrors a Kywi dynamic more so than Lauki), much inspiration was drawn from their interactions. Lauren’s ‘bull-terrier’ shake of her head is a characteristic Tuppence is often described as having. The scallop scene in chapter 5 is also something inspired by T+T, as well as the ending interrogation sequences. REALLY recommend the T+T books, they make me grin like a fool and their romance is portrayed in a very natural and attractive manner. 
> 
> \- Lauren’s parents’s ‘wine game’ from Chapter 12 is inspired by the beginning chapters of Agatha Christie’s ‘Spider’s Web’ (one of the first Christie books I ever read, and still one of the best). This book gets very, very dark in some areas (general warning for mentions of self harm and sexual assault, be safe y’all!) but is overall, as I said, one of the best Christie has done. It was originally a play written by her that was adapted to a book!
> 
> \- Some general aspects of the Rethburn's relationship/overall dynamic are taken from and influenced by Simon Doyle and Jackie de Belfort from the book 'Death on the Nile.' If you want even more petty drama than Evil Under the Sun, I highly recommend this one.
> 
> See you all at the finish line folks. Comments/kudos will always be my blackberry tarts <3
> 
> Insta: @artsofisha  
> Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com
> 
> -thumbipeach


	17. They Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So all this matter boils down to—all it is—is an affair of consequence and amity.”

Indeed, they do say many things about La Lune.

People _are_ inclined to talk, to speculate, about things they do not quite understand. 

Perhaps that is why there are so many rumors, why suppositions run abound at night and dances amongst the stars, where Lune did once walk.

But it is then that an irrefutable fact emerges from the cesspool of hushed gossip:

That for whatever others may _say_ about the vigilante duo known as Lune, it is nothing compared to what _they_ know _._

_They know who they are._

They are an assassin and an officer. 

One moved at night and the other during the day, and that was how it was supposed to go, never meeting, never touching. Two sides to a gleeful divide that should not have converged, for if it did it would have brought the foundations of light crumbling to its bones.

But twilight is a furious thing, and when red and black bled to burnished crimson their hands met, palms flush and eyes locked in a dangerous game, and nothing else was the same since.

They are partners, confidants.

They are cunning, they are ruthless.

They are lovers, two sides to a single coin. Whole.

They are Lauren Sinclair and Kieran White.

_They know what they’ve done, all they've accomplished._

“They don’t want themselves associated with it at all?”

Captain Andrés sounds his incredulity to the entirety of his office, the occupants of which include nobody more than himself and a vaguely apologetic-looking Constable Avery, the latter drafting up the official report of the Challenger case with irritating, constant clicks of typewriter keys.

“No, _Capitaine. Madame_ herself asked—practically implored me—they don’t want their names in the report, they don’t want it in the paper—”

“Oh well _that’s_ easy enough for them to say!” The Captain throws his hands up in exasperation. “I can’t control the press—“

”We’ll be careful about it—we owe it to them, _Capitaine.”_

He sighed. “I wouldn’t even begin to know _why—_ they practically _solved_ the case for us—why wouldn’t they want—?”

To his surprise, the Constable frowns slightly in genuine consideration, his fingers still roving efficiently over the machine’s expanse of buttons.

“Well—perhaps they’re private people. After all, Chief Sinclair is a prominent figure. And I’m sure _Monsieur_ her husband wouldn’t want the publicity for his career.”

“I suppose...” The Captain frowned, looking down at the loose copy of the report he’d been forcing himself to write out critically, disdainfully lifting a corner stained with coffee.

Then, Constable Avery speaks again, the smooth drawl of his usually placid voice unsure, uncertain, hesitant, woven in between the harsh taps of the typewriter.

“ _Capitaine—_ do you think—?”

“Hm—?”

The typing stops.

“What that man was trying to tell us—it was true—? That they _are_ Lune?” He looked up from the machine, his young eyes very wide.

Captain Andrès looked at him for a long time, the cogs turning in his mind.

He remembered the spritely woman, one not quite so youthful anymore, but eyes and face still holding a beautiful, blazing virility. The confidence, the long-established, weather worn grace. The command she had when she leaned forward and crossed her legs in front of her, guarded but open to the person she had chosen to take into her consideration, only where she chose it to be.

He remembered the enchanting man, with raven hair and heart, his polite movements and demure expression hiding something behind them, a blanket quickly thrown over a quick wit and sharp instincts—and something else, too: vulnerability, patience, and quiet ripples on water when disturbed with stones.

He remembered, most vividly of all, a hotel lobby illuminated in gold morning dew, when the man had held the woman to tight to him and whispered desperately for her to be careful, when the woman had met him for his countenance, pensive eyes filled with a quiet adoration, tapped his shoulder and reassured him that it would be fine—they would be fine.

Then, he shrugged.

“I don’t know. But if they are—“

He scrutinized the report, its dry detail and the lilting penmanship making him shiver with a creeping feeling of shame.

“Then I suppose they’ve earned it.”

The Constable cocked his head. “ _C’est vrai_.”

Silence. The typewriter started up again. 

Captain Andrès extricated himself from his seat with a groan, opting to throw open the small window for some fresh air, a reprieve from the stale, oppressive feeling of his private office. From outside drifted in the slighted conversations of the passerby outside, the seagull croaks and the harsh, humid scent of the sea.

Constable Avery finished the page he’d been working on, shoving it off the typewriter with almost concerning force, causing Captain Andrès to wince a little.

“Now you can tell your wife all about the murder! I’d bet she’d love to hear it.”

Martin Andrès rolled his eyes.

“Perhaps she’ll stop pestering me to go to central Ardhalis.”

“Why—after learning about the crime committed in her hometown?”

“Well. It’ll show her—evil can happen everywhere.”

“Hm. True enough.”

_They know that their past is bathed in shadow and regret, and the things painted in permanent ink will not leave them so soon._

It’s in the depths of the port town again, the cobblestone under his feet and the shifting, swaying of myriad bodies, people going about their lives, blue and white and pink mixing in a rainbow of blurred cloth underneath his unfocused gaze.

Exceptions, dissections of the parody, though, they arise like his fears. 

Lauren had pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips and bid him a temporary goodbye, promising to come back with information on how to get to the west side of the city, where the boats would be docked, leaving him alone in the throngs of passerby, a denned and caged bear in a field of shifting poppies, pure and white and not yet awash in blood.

He wanders almost aimlessly, winding through stalls of baked bread and freshly picked strawberries crystallizing in the sun, until he comes across the same flower booth he’d frequented on his scarce trips into town, the same boy in a straw cap manning it. He smiles a gap toothed grin when he sees him.

“Let me guess, _Monsieur—!”_ And on command, daisies manifest in grubby fingers, virile and alive with their jaundiced centers and silken, ivory petals, perfect circles like roaming pinwheels.

Kieran smiles thinly, taking them in his own hands. But before he hands the boy his coin, he suddenly stands straight, looks him in the eye.

“Actually—“ he points. “One of those, for today, too.”

The boy’s eyes open wide, and they are not silver grey, rheumy thunderstorms of the past, but stark blue like new skies, and for that Kieran can manage a slight bit of consolation as a flower is pressed into his palm, one he has to sit down first in order to name.

With a thanks muffled by his coat collar and a harried wave behind him, he walks on until he finds a bench unoccupied, collapsing into it with a huff and setting the daisy beside him.

Then, sitting on his haunches, elbows on his knees, he holds the offending flower up and closes his eyes.

Instantaneously he has to open them again, breath rasping. He looks around quickly, but nobody seems to be watching.

It was a mistake to let black cloud his lids, to forget where he was in the present for even a mere second, for if he disregarded where he was now with a lavender blossom held delicately in his fingertips he’d be thrust into long ago, and one of the people passing by would be dead on the cobble, and he’d have to beg for forgiveness with the offending thing, prostrate himself in the only way he could do.

He sighs, staring straight ahead, pointedly avoiding the gaze of the purple hyacinth, the thing he has to work up to, the thing he has to console and acknowledge.

Then, something snaps within him, a resolve he didn’t know had been building, and he looks down.

It casts a perfect shadow on the cobble below, held between his knees like the moon itself, and he finds to his immense surprise that the only thing he can feel when he looks at it, a purple hyacinth, for the first time in seeming years, all he can muster is a wave of alarming calm.

It’s just a flower.

It’s just a flower.

Then that realization evaporates, and he is all choked breath once more, rising and turning swiftly to surreptitiously tuck it into a planter on a shop windowsill. They won’t notice if there’s thirteen; it’s better than one missing, in any case.

Slumping back down onto the bench, he sighs. Looks up at the sky.

The clouds shift, the sun wanes behind awnings and casts spotlights on miscellaneous points on the street, and yet what captures his attention more is still things of the past.

But then, he smiles softly. His eyes clear.

He has no need for the flower anymore, after all. He says his forgiveness in small words and gentle eyes, and that is all it will be, all it will need to be from now on.

And maybe he’ll never be able to look the flower in the eye again. Maybe he won’t stop running from purple, from lavender and scarlet rust and the little notes in the margins of his life that remind him that he was once despicable, a wolf among little lambs waiting for the dread of shorn wool and blood.

But he has more flowers, now. His hands drift to the daisy laying by his side.

And then, something obstructs his vision, something entirely welcome. He makes an infinitesimal tilt of his head to come face to face with burning gold, halting scarlet tendrils framing a beautiful face donned with a wide, fond smile. 

She covers the sun, casting rays of light around her face and backlighting her figure like a halo, and he finds that wholly appropriate, for she’d always manage to come between him and whatever scorching thing he cannot bring himself to see, would always look at him just so, like he is her own sun, and he knows that all is right.

“ _Missed me, dear?”_ She asks playfully, a hand on her hip as he straightens languidly from his splayed position on the bench, his lips curving in a smirk, the corners turning upwards in soft, devilish delight.

“Possibly,” he replies. He takes the daisy in light fingers, holding it out to her in offering.

She stares down at it, taken aback a little, for what reason he cannot ascertain. Then, she gives him that answer, laughs and presses her fingers over his, covering them in graceful digits, her touch gentle and lovely.

“I got you something, too—”

And before he can even quirk his eyebrows, she holds up her own gift.

A hydrangea, the little bulb of tiny blossoms perfectly formed, a little sphere of crafted puzzle pieces fit together. His eyes widen, and he looks up at his wife to find her beaming.

She picks one little flower out of the bunch, pressing it behind his ear, bushing his bangs back from his braid, and he only belatedly remembers in his quiet shock to do the same to her daisy. 

Then, she draws back, and smiles. 

“Don’t you look lovely, subordinate.”

He bounds upward, laughs, stretches out his fingers and touches the bloom lightly, tentatively, like it is made of glass and he would shatter it if he dared handle it with anything more than the utmost care.

“ _Thank you, mon cœur.”_

She smiles, tilting her head. “Think nothing of it, _mon bonheur.”_

Then, she waves a brochure in her fingers. “So—I’ve asked around.”

She shakes her head in exasperation. “We’ve been going the wrong direction for the past twenty minutes.”

Kieran chuckles helplessly, holding out his arm so Lauren can tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they make down the street, twin footsteps, one confident and resounding, the other silent, unheard like a panther.

“Sounds like more of an adventure for us, no?”

Lauren throws her head back, tilts her chin and lets the rays of the sun and the soft ocean scent dapple her cheeks and her hair, perfect pearls of dust caught in her delicate lashes, and Kieran looks down at her fondly, with more reverence than he’d give to anything more scarlet, more gold, more colorful.

“That’s so, I suppose!”

As he walks, he looks at the planters of hyacinths that line the walkway, and with the comforting weight of Lauren’s fingers on his skin, he feels nothing more than a peace that slots into his heart like a perfect cache.

_They know that whatever these things may be, they can always reconcile them._

Lauren wakes again, on the heels of stolen air, breathless panting and tingling limbs. It is her ritual, her tradition, her right.

She throws off the sheets, standing in the dark and quiet night, the soft summer air oppressive in the tiny room.

She makes for the spot where the board should be.

But this time, instead of stopping, of realizing where she is and trying unfaithfully and unsuccessfully to fall back into a reluctant sleep, she keeps going. Her feet keep moving, her nightgown billowing as she strides confidently, with purpose.

Yes, now she walks further, long past where the wall once would have halted her movements, past the red threads and the newspaper black and white, and throws open the balcony window with wide swings of her arms.

Stepping out onto the platform, she holds the rail, feeling the chill from the metal seep up her arms and settle at her elbows, feels the cool drag of her thin nightgown against bare legs as she moves further, until she stands staring out to sea, a bull terrier at careful attention, her eyes keen on the waves beyond.

She breathes. In. Out. A cycle of dependency.

Then, looking up in consideration, in ruminating thought, she stands on her tiptoes, reaching for the peony planter with both hands, plucking one out before returning to her initial position.

She stares down at the little thing.

It’s wilted, slightly; though it gets enough water and care, it _is_ a couple weeks old, and the sticky petals look limp, stale, nothing youthful in the way they curve and wrinkle as she twirls the brittle stem in her thumb and forefinger.

She leans her elbows on the railing, the pink hues caught in her eyes.

Then, she sighs. Twists her wrists and looks down.

“Dylan.” She whispers to the wind.

Nobody answers.

“I wanted to say—” she pauses, looks at the peony again in contempt.

She is caught up in a different memory than smoke and charred train tracked, fires and rubble. 

No; she remembers now the day they’d sat together in the tulip fields in the back of their estate, and they’d sworn defiantly on their little fingers that they’d never leave each other, two belligerent children willing to challenge fate. And drowning in the scent of newly formed tulips, she’d had no reason to doubt him.

“You always did keep your promises.” She smiles ruefully, holding up the peony so it catches the moonlight.

Because he hadn’t left her, ever; he was always plaguing her mind, keeping her locked in the waves of guilt she’d once dunked her head under and wished to die with, to climb the hills and crags that she’d made for herself with her and never leave her side, like he’d always said he wouldn’t.

Even now that the tulip field was replaced by freesias and the helpless splattering of wild and wanton daisies, she was still held back in the rows and rows of rainbow colors, of white and grey, too. 

But then, she smiles. Tilts her head to inhale the cool breeze of the sea. Starts again, the train tracks lying in freeform one after another, always a pattern, shackle and nail, tooth and hand.

“That’s ok, I think.” She nods her head, allows her hair to drape over her shoulders. 

“Because—“ she stops.

“You’re not the only thing in this world that I have to try and make amends with.” 

She whispers the words out to the wind, and it receives them with undue grace, takes her hushed utterance and carries it out to sea, past the Fae’s Cove and beyond, echoing soundly in the caverns and in her own mind as truth. 

And she knows the truth.

“I’ll have to leave you. Some day.” She sighs, holds the peony up to her nose to inhale the scent of it, and it’s calming; it does nothing to abate her nerves, but something in it reminds her of deals, of goals and aspirations, of things of the future.

“But if that day—that night even—isn’t tonight, then I think I could live with it.”

Something settles within her.

_“I believe firmly in the presence of evil.”_

The peony flutters as a gust of wind whirls, leaves caught in the breeze.

“And it _is_ everywhere, after all.” She grins, a rueful half smile at her lips.

Then, in a sweeping motion, she tosses the peony off the balcony rail, watches it fall to the ground below in a shower of pink. 

She smiles, as she sees it drop, hit the ground with nary a noise, as it is a light thing, like a bird shedding downy feathers. 

It’s not the last peony in the planter. But it is one less.

She turns back to look inside the room, at her husband’s steady form through the sheer lining of the curtains, still soundly asleep and back facing her.

Stepping gingerly inside and leaving the door open to allow the salty air to seep in, she moves quietly towards the bed, the mattress dipping with her slight weight as she settles back above the sheets.

She shifts until she is flush with his back, and loops her arms around him, throws her legs over and hooking them lightly until she is straddling his back, pressing her lips to the tapered end of a scar, falling down his spine in a practiced brushstroke. 

He hums contentedly, arches his body closer to her touch, and when she smiles and dips her lashes closed, she can smell poppies and charcoal and the familiar scent of home and happiness instead of peonies and gladioli, fear and uncertainty.

And so she sleeps, and he does too, smiling a little to himself.

_They know that together, they stand obstructed by nothing._

It’s the last day, and they find themselves back at the pier, sketchbook and cheesecake laid out on the table in a delightful parody of the first.

Both of their bodies are angled towards the shoreline, a glass of light pinot shared between them, one they can both enjoy, this time, rather than merely having to stomach it for the sake of a fanciful ruse.

“So, officer?” Kieran cuts in, tilting his glass to his lips. “Final sunrise.”

“Yes.” Lauren sighed. “It’s beautiful; it always is.”

Kieran hums, his hands twitching to the paper and pencil beside him. “You think I can get it?”

She shakes her head fondly. “I know you always can.”

He smiles affectionately over at her, his bangs falling over his face and caging the azure glint in his eyes.

“Well. I have many, anyways.” He shrugs, setting down his flute on the table. “I don’t think it’ll hurt too much if I skip it.”

“Besides—“ he turns cheekily—”I have something a bit more beautiful here I could—”

“You’re _dreadful,”_ she chastised, a hand waved in embarrassed dismissal. But she cannot hide the glint in her eyes, the spark of quiet mirth, of the warm feeling bursting in her chest whenever he smiles at her like that.

“I _do_ live only to embarrass you, you know that!”

“Right, **try for something a bit different, then!** ” 

She sips delicately from her wine glass, setting it down and then looking back out to sea, her fingers clasped as she watches blue and gold and lavender mix together in splotches of stroking paint, oily ridges and smooth textures blending in a perfect painting, nature’s own doing.

He is silent for a few moments, contemplative. Then:

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

She turns to him, cocks her head in thought. 

“Yes, I rather think I did!” Her eyes widen. “Did you?”

He laughs. “I think I did, too!” 

He holds up his own wine glass, ruby red swaying lightly in its confines.

“It was a pleasure to work with you again, _Madame_ Sinclair-White.”

She smiles, a full turn of her lips, and laughs joyfully, holly bells sounding in the quiet evening, and meets her own glass with his in a soft clink of a wind chime.

“Likewise, _Monsieur_ Sinclair-White. We should do that more often, then.”

“Oh—” he looks back out, grinning to himself—”I shouldn’t want so many bodies the next time—”

“No, certainly not. And no split lips, either.”

He frowns over at her. “You—”

She waves a hand, rolls her eyes. “But it _was_ fun!”

He nods in agreement. “Reminded me of the old days.”

“What, when we were younger—stupider?”

“Are you calling me _stupid?”_

“Well—am I wrong, necessarily?”

“You wicked little—“

He flicks a crumb at her from across the table, and she swats it away, laughing as he leans in.

“I was _not_ stupid—who got us all that information in the end, hm?”

“Oh _please_ subordinate—” she leans in too, meeting him square on, her eyes shining—”we both know who was the more useful.”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, leveling him with a triumphant smirk. “And _here,_ too! You yourself admitted it—”

“Alright, alright!” He waves off her pointing finger, laughing. “I’ll concede to you, officer. But only because I’m fond of you.”

“Good. And thank you, that’s always a reassurance!” She grins with impish delight, leaning back once more.

They both turn their heads as another wave crashes down onto the sand, frothing white and sweeping back again for another round, another beat in the steady music the ocean plays.

“So—” he says again, his eyes still on the blue expanse. “—we’ve done just about everything we could.”

She looks at him curiously when he shifts in his seat, bending down and raising his legs to unlace the straps of his shoes.

“What are you—?”

“I am—” he rises again, waving his shoes, caught in a single finger, before setting them gingerly down on the pier floorboards—

“—doing the one thing we _should_ do at the seaside!”

And with nothing more than a mocking salute and a devilish grin he is off, tearing down the embankment in bare feet, kicking up divots of sand in his wake.

“Come _on,_ officer!” He calls, his strong, deep voice carrying, waving back to her tauntingly as he continues to run.

“Oh my _god—”_ she rises in incredulity, elated exasperation on her face, though her fingers are already unlacing the ties of her sandals, hiking up the lace of her underskirts before following on his heels, sand flying behind her as she leaps off the table and makes for the shore with a fleeting yell.

When she arrives he has already waded in ankle deep, his pant legs rucked up to his calves and his hands outstretched, and his figure reads like a falling angel in the blinding colors of the sunset. He moves further, water pooling around his shins in twin pools, and when he turns his eyes are lit by fire.

“Come, _mon amour!_ Don’t be such a wet blanket—you’re going to get wet, anyhow!” He gestures to the water, laughing.

She stares for some time. Then, with a reluctant hand, she gathers her skirts in a single fist before dipping her toes in tentatively.

It’s cold, and she hisses slightly with the chill, but ever one to delve headfirst into flames, she wades further, water lapping gently against her legs like a lover’s caress, and she follows until she is in just as deep as him.

They stand like that together, looking at the receding sun and falling into the feeling of the swaying waves. Lauren curls her toes into the wet sand, feeling it cocoon around her feet.

Then, suddenly, just as she is about to turn to Kieran and make a comment about the sea’s beauty, she finds herself soaked, suddenly sprayed with water.

Kieran is laughing, the devil, as he kicks his feet up, splashing ocean spray on them both.

“I _told_ you it was inevitable!”

“Oh—you _little—”_ she drops her already soaked dress in playful indignance, bending down to gather more water in her cupped palms before tossing it at him, and he darts back with startled alacrity as she jeers in satisfaction.

And then the game begins, and the wind is filled with their roaring laughter as they toss the waves, limbs at war as they give their reparations to each other, until their entire bodies are soaked to damp with ocean water.

Drawing closer, she pushes him lightly, and he has the grace to fall backwards dramatically, but not before he snags her sleeve at the last moment, her gasp swallowed by the sound of their bodies hitting the water, shooting lapping waves high as they tumble down together.

She pounds his chest with indignant palms, spitting salty water out of her mouth and brushing wet strands of hair out of her eyes. “Really, _Kieran—”_

“What’s the ocean if you can’t get wet, once in a while?” He throws his head back, laughing, and she can place a palm over the place on his broad chest where it emanates from, a rough rasp that leaves her feeling warm and content.

She moves forward, brushing her wet hands on his face and jaw as she makes to lean over him, tucking more haphazard tendrils of his own hair back as she looks into his eyes.

For a moment that is them, their picture taken, frozen in time, and Kieran’s fingers again ache for a pencil, to immortalize the scene in charcoal and pastel, in the curving slopes of her neck and her lashes, the drape of her wet hair.

But something makes it seem less whole, and that is the fact that he cannot hope to capture the scent of honey and forest fires, of daisies and freesias, of the feeling of her soaked skirt under his palm and the love in her eyes as she looks down at him, and it is at this that he stops thinking about keeping the moment in preservation, instead moving to press his lips against her jaw, the juncture of her neck, skin wet and dewy but no less sweet. 

Pulling back, he looks her in the eye.

“You _did_ enjoy yourself?” He asks earnestly, looking for a response, looking for—

She leans down and regards his prone figure, her fingers gentle on his cheek, swiping away drops of water with the pads of them.

“Of course.” She smiles. “You were with me.”

And at this she takes him in her arms, trailing kisses up his neck, at his sternum, his jaw, her tongue catching the tang of saltwater and the intoxicating feeling of _him_ in their wake. And he laughs, laughs and laughs, and she does too, and they are together under a sun that has seen all.

“ _I love you. I love you.”_ She repeats in an earnest chant, every press of her lips hushed with whispered promise.

He nudges her with his shoulder so she can look up and meet his gaze, and then, when he takes her face in his searching, loving hands and kisses her deeply, tastes saltwater and seafoam and tart honey and blackberries, he mutters his response against her lips, a breath against them that takes hers away, ever the thief, the criminal.

_“I love you too, Lauren.”_

_They know that it is the little kindnesses, the little things they leave behind in their wake, those are the things that are worth more than the charge of fire and smoke, building rather than burning their city down to the ground._ _  
_

“You’re sure you have everything?”

It’s the third time her father has asked that question, and certainly far past the third time they’ve gone over this.

“I know where I’m going, _Papa,”_ she assures breathlessly, as she whips a can of cold cream, whisk flying with gentle practice, " _vraiment."_

“You’re completely certain?”

“ _Yes.”_ And it is some type of testament that it is not said with any exasperation, merely calm fondness at his endless, worried questions.

“You have enough money for the train fares? It’s—”

“I do, I think.” She smiles lightly, pausing to dump bits of fresh strawberry into the frothed white foam, her other hand reaching down to her apron pocket, where she fingers a little ten-pence coin, the silver smooth in her palms.

She turns back to her father, notes the fond smile on his face, his greying eyes charged with affection.

“I’ll manage.” She smiles, and returns to the whipped cream, moving to slather it on a row of tiny cakes.

_They know that they are always five steps ahead of the game._

“Sir!”

Mr. Bessly turns on the gangplank of the train station to see Mrs. Sinclair-White, waving him down with a rushed hand as she hurries towards him, heels clicking against the creamy stone floor. In her fingers, stray papers are clutched gently, with utmost care.

"Can't leave without these, can you?"

He gasps, flicking through the miscellaneous leaflets before turning a thankful eye on her.

" _Oh, thank you—“_

She waved a dismissive hand. "You dropped them when you were walking, I saw—" she pointed behind her.

"How did everything go—the writing? You got what you needed?" She inquired politely, hands clasped demurely behind her back.

He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded, just as Mr. Sinclair-White came up behind them, setting down the bag he'd been carrying and looping an arm over his wife's shoulders, the both of them listening attentively.

"It's actually gone swimmingly—when I get back I'll be searching to publish it, now!"

"Really!" Kieran clapped, his eyes wide in good-natured excitement. "Congratulations!"

"Indeed!" He laughed, gesturing to the pile of papers bundled by thick bindings.

"You see—I managed to puzzle out the whole thing."

He looks up, his eyes shining.

"You see—this whole business—it was rooted in inherent evil."

Lauren nodded slightly.

"But the solution to _it—that is_ even more fascinating. It’s a coincidence, that all the players in the game were there all at once. Aria, Mr. Fairson, those two—and, of course, you both—"

He gestured excitedly. "And you were kind enough to see it through! It is only the amicable that can see evil eradicated from the world, no?"

"Right." Kieran acknowledged, tilting his head.

"So all this matter boils down to—all it is—"

He looks down, consults the specific page where he has scrawled the impending title in a crimped hand—

"It is an affair of consequence—and amity!"

He proclaims it loudly, with acute pride, and the Sinclair-Whites nod kindly, a curious light in their eyes.

"That sounds quite illuminating." Lauren smiles. 

"Have you written anything specific about yours truly, in that thing?" Kieran asks lightly, tapping the ends of the leaftlets with his forefinger.

Mr. Bessly shakes his head, laughing. "No! Of course not. This book isn't about mere common people--mentioning names would take it out for me!"

Kieran closes his eyes in acquiescence, smiling amiably. "Of course."

The Fairsons nudge past him on the gangplank on their way up to the Nightingale train car, and Mrs. Fairson, looking rather harried, dots of mascara on her cheeks, throws him a rather scathing look under her lashes.

" _Raving lunatic,"_ she mutters underneath her breath as she disappears behind the train doors. Mr. Fairson throws them an apologetic look on his wife’s tail, morphing into almost fear when he looks at the Sinclair-White, and he blanches, following after her with a small bow.

Kieran stares after them, his face pensive, a frown overcoming his features. Then, he snapped his fingers, a smile forming.

" _Monsieur—“_ he turns to Mr. Bessly, his eyes shining. 

"When you've got that thing out, I'll be the first to buy it!"

Mr. Bessly looks shocked, bringing a hand up to wave it in abashed dismissal, but he shakes his head, pressing further.

"Really! It's only fair, after the kindness you've shown us."

He looked at them for some time in disbelief. Then, he beamed.

"I won't forget that! Just watch out for my name, _Monsieur!"_

And he bows deeply, making his way up the gangplank in a flurry of papers.

When his back has receded out of sight, Lauren throws a questioning glance up at Kieran, who only responds with an amused smile and a curious twinkle.

"You're really going to—?"

He shrugged. "Might be amusing. Besides—“

He looked down. "Might be something about us, in there, however vague. Would be nice to read how he sees us."

Lauren laughed, taking up her suitcase and passing him up the walkway to the train.

"Your ego, subordinate! It knows no bounds."

He smiled lightly as they got onto the train. Then, his face changed, and he threw her a concerned glance.

"You're alright?" He asked.

She considered it, knowing why he was asking. Then, she shook her head, smiling.

"Yes, I think I am! I'm fact—“ she looks at him thoughtfully.

"—I hadn't even considered it."

He grins, and she does too.

_They know that they can always get out alive. Because that is what they always do, one after another, together, hand in hand._

They stand on the same metal balcony they had before, hair whipping in the wind as the train departs from _Des Angoisses,_ trees and sky blinding their view of the coastline.

Kieran looked down at his wife where they stood together, shoulders touching.

She looks up at him, face open, full of contentment.

"So? A job well done, subordinate."

He smiled down at her. "A job well done."

And as he took her palm in his, scar pressed to scar, equal in all things, and pulled her to his chest, he could hear her whisper a phrase, the words flying behind them as they went.

"All beautiful things, _mon bonheur."_

And he nods, looking up at the morning sun, the afternoon light, his hair falling about him in tendrils as he inhaled the light air, feeling more alive than anything.

"All beautiful things indeed, _mon coeur_."

_They know many, many things, Lune does. That is how they have always worked, how they get so far ahead. But there is one thing that triumphs over all else, one thing that they know without having to affirm, one thing that they have managed to build up over years and years and years._

_That no matter what happens, no matter where they are or who they will meet—_

They will—always and forever—be partners in crime.

And an ability is not needed to confirm it, for it is true enough indeed.

All beautiful things.

  
  


_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be long, so buckle up.
> 
> “An Affair of Consequence and Amity” is the first piece of my writing I’ve posted anywhere, ever.
> 
> I wouldn’t call myself a necessarily inexperienced writer, per se—I’ve been writing ever since I could hold a pencil and I’ve drafted my rambling, wild headcanons in innumerable google docs that will remain unseen for various other fandoms—but this fic? My first. I made an ao3 account specifically for this—the only reason I knew the ins and outs of the site already being that I have been an anonymous lurker for the past 2-3 years 
> 
> This fic was borne out of two very specific desires:
> 
> a) The absolute yearning I had for healthy Lauki after the season 1 finale. My favorite episodes, contrary to popular consensus, are actually not 36-38. No; it is, in fact, 14-16, 20-22. The Lune content—where they work together. I needed a version of that where they were comfortable with each other, where they were the true power couple we all wanted and needed them to be.
> 
> b) My love for Agathe Christie, and murder mysteries involving lots of petty human drama. 
> 
> My brain child festered in my head, during which time I consumed the ever-growing pile of Lauki and Kywi Angst the lovely writers I looked up to were spewing out. And I came to a conclusion, one that I had resisted for so long: if I wanted my stupid Lauki happiness, I was gonna have to bite the bullet and do something I’d never thought I’d do: write it myself.
> 
> And so, I began to type furiously on my computer, working away at ‘They Say.’ I made my account, copy pasted, posted with a definitive press of a button, and then went off about my day. Because I’d never had an account before, I didn’t really know many of the nuances of posting on ao3–which is why I wasn’t really expecting any reception. I had quite honestly forgotten that I’d even done it.
> 
> And then the first comment notification came in.
> 
> Instantly I understood it—the high of receiving feedback. I’d almost never left kudos and actually never left comments—but now I understand just how much they mean to an author to get them. You all and your lovely words kept me going in the times I felt this fic was stupid, wish fulfillment nobody would read— times I felt discouraged. Thank you, for every kudo, hit, bookmark, subscription, and most of all, comment. I love interacting with everyone on this site so, so very much.
> 
> I have many more thanks to give:
> 
> Thank you, most important of all, Soph and Eph, for creating the one thing I managed to get into far enough to write for: The Purple Hyacinth. Top tier, favorite webtoon, always.
> 
> Thank you to Dame Agatha herself, for being the one thing I listen to on long car rides.
> 
> And, thank you to the PH fic community. I’ve met and made so many amazing writer friends, and the support network of this community specifically is astounding. The interactions I’ve had on here have made my day more than once. Thank you for all the people who work to bring us amazing content, thank you for all the laughs and the cries that you’ve served.
> 
> Thank you, most importantly of all, for your kindness to me. On AAoCA, and every small thing after that—Four and Twenty, TLoF, Cuckoo, Fig Tree, question, everything—I feel loved, every day, because of all of you. I came into this fandom with no background and from the outside, and I have been accepted with unparalleled grace, every time, to the point where it has astounded me to meet and be a part of such a wonderful community. I am more grateful than I can express with mere words. Much love, as I will always repeat, to the whole lot of you. My friends, my fellow writers. My blackbirds <3
> 
> I am honored to have entertained you all so. I look forward to doing this again—and again. Because yes, more is coming from your favorite incoherent fruit, and as Season 2 kicks the door down and gives us all an ass beating, you best believe I will be there, your Peachie, at the forefront of the chaos, keyboard and daisy in hand.
> 
> (More will be specified in the next TLoF chapter. Go on to that one if you’re not done with married Lauki, as I am certainly not).
> 
> It has been a wild ride, AAoCaA has. But I have enjoyed every second. Thank you. Thank you.
> 
> And, as always and forever, comments/kudos are my hyacinths, my diamonds. My joy <3
> 
> Forever Yours,
> 
> -thumbipeach ❤️


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